GEO  H.  WHITNEY 

VUNEAU-- ALASKA 


GEO  H.WHITNEY 

"JI3NEAU  --  ALASKA 


ELLEN    GLASGOW 


THE  DESCENDANT 


By    Ellen    Glasgow 


NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

I  900 


•.•  •  .    • 


Copyright,  1897,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHBRS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


#35/3 


TO 
G.  W.  McC. 


BOOK   I 
VARIATION    FROM    TYPE 

OMNE    VIVUM  EX  OVO 


THE    DESCENDANT 


CHAPTER   I 


THE  child  sat  upon  the  roadside.  A  stiff  wind  was  ris 
ing  westward,  blowing  over  stretches  of  meadow-land  that 
had  long  since  run  to  waste,  a  scarlet  tangle  of  sumac  and 
sassafras.  In  the  remote  West,  from  whose  heart  the  wind 
had  risen,  the  death-bed  of  the  Sun  showed  bloody  after  the 
carnage,  and  nearer  at  hand  naked  branches  of  poplar  and 
sycamore  were  silhouetted  against  the  shattered  horizon, 
like  skeletons  of  human  arms  that  had  withered  in  the 
wrath  of  God. 

Over  the  meadows  the  amber  light  of  the  afterglow  fell 
like  rain.  It  warmed  the  spectres  of  dead  carrot  flowers, 
and  they  awoke  to  reflect  its  glory ;  it  dabbled  in  the  blood 
of  sumac  and  pokeberry ;  and  it  set  its  fiery  torch  to  the 
goldenrod  till  it  ignited  and  burst  into  bloom,  flashing  a 
subtle  flame  from  field  to  field,  a  glorious  bonfire  from  the 
hand  of  Nature. 

The  open  road  wound  lazily  along,  crossing  transversely 
the  level  meadow-land  and  leading  from  the  small  town  of 
Plaguesville  to  somewhere.  Nobody  —  at  least  nobody 
thereabouts — knew  exactly  where,  for  it  was  seldom  that  a 
native  left  Plaguesville,  and  when  he  did  it  was  only  to  go 
to  Arlington,  a  few  miles  farther  on,  where  the  road  dropped 
him,  stretching  southward. 

The  child  sat  restlessly  upon  the  rotten  rails  that  were 


4  THE    DESCENDANT 

once  a  fence.  He  was  lithe  and  sinewy,  with  a  sharp  brown 
face  and  eyes  that  were  narrow  and  shrewd — a  small,  wild 
animal  of  the  wood  come  out  from  the  underbrush  to  bask 
in  the  shifting  sunshine. 

Occasionally  a  laborer  passed  along  the  road  from  his 
field  work,  his  scythe  upon  his  shoulder,  the  pail  in  which 
his  dinner  was  brought  swinging  at  his  side.  Once  a  troop 
of  boys  had  gone  by  with  a  dog,  and  then  a  beggar  hob 
bling  on  his  crutch.  :  They  were  following  in  the  wake  of 
the  circus, vwrlictfi; was  moving  to  Plaguesville  from  a  neigh 
bour  g  tcw-n.-  «  The. child  had  seen  the  caravan  go  by.  He 
had  seen  the  mustang  ponies  and  the  cowboys  who  rode 
them ;  he  had  seen  the  picture  of  the  fat  lady  painted  upon 
the  outside  of  her  tent ,  and  he  had  even  seen  the  elephant 
as  it  passed  in  its  casings. 

Presently  the  child  rose,  stooping  to  pick  the  blackberry 
briers  from  his  bare  legs.  He  wore  nankeen  trousers  some 
what  worn  in  the  seat  and  a  nankeen  shirt  somewhat  worn 
at  the  elbows.  His  hand  was  rough  and  brier-pricked,  his 
feet  stained  with  the  red  clay  of  the  cornfield.  Then,  as 
he  turned  to  move  onward,  there  was  a  sound  of  footsteps, 
and  a  man's  figure  appeared  suddenly  around  a  bend  in  the 
road,  breaking  upon  the  glorified  landscape  like  an  ill- 
omened  shadow. 

It  was  the  minister  from  the  church  near  the  town.  He 
was  a  small  man  with  a  threadbare  coat,  a  large  nose,  and 
no  chin  to  speak  of.  Indeed,  the  one  attribute  of  saintli- 
ness  in  which  he  was  found  lacking  was  a  chin.  An  inch 
the  more  of  chin,  and  he  might  have  been  held  as  a  saint ; 
an  inch  the  less,  and  he  passed  as  a  simpleton.  Such  is 
the  triumph  of  Matter  over  Mind. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  the  minister.  He  always  inquired 
for  a  passport,  not  that  he  had  any  curiosity  upon  the  sub 
ject,  but  that  he  believed  it  to  be  his  duty.  As  yet  he  had 
only  attained  that  middle  state  of  sanctity  where  duty  and 
pleasure  are  clearly  defined.  The  next  stage  is  the  one  in 
which,  from  excessive  cultivation  of  the  senses  or  atrophy 


THE    DESCENDANT  5 

of  the  imagination,  the  distinction  between  the  things  we 
ought  to  do  and  the  things  we  want  to  do  becomes  obliter 
ated. 

The  child  came  forward. 

"  It's  me,"  he  said.  "  Little  Mike  Akershem,  as  minds 
the  pigs." 

"Ah!"  said  the  minister.  "The  boy  that  Farmer  Wat- 
kins  is  bringing  up.  Why,  bless  my  soul,  boy,  you've  been 
fighting !" 

The  child  whimpered.  He  drew  his  shirt  sleeve  across 
his  eyes. 

"I  —  I  warn't  doin'  nothin',"  he  wailed.  "  Leastways, 
nothin'  but  mindin'  the  pigs,  when  Jake  Johnson  knocked 
me  down,  he  did." 

"He's  a  wicked  boy,"  commented  the  minister,  "and 
should  be  punished.  And  what  did  you  do  when  Jake  John 
son  knocked  you  down  ?" 

"  I— I  fell,"  whimpered  the  child. 

"  A  praiseworthy  spirit,  Michael,  and  I  am  glad  to  see  it 
in  one  so  young  and  with  such  a  heritage.  You  know  the 
good  book  says :  '  Do  good  unto  them  that  persecute  you 
and  despitefully  use  you.'  Now,  you  would  like  to  do  good 
unto  Jake  Johnson,  wouldn't  you,  Michael  ?" 

"  I — I'd  like  to  bus'  him  open,"  sobbed  the  child.  Tears 
were  streaming  from  his  eyes.  When  he  put  up  his  hand 
to  wipe  them  away  it  left  dirty  smears  upon  his  cheeks. 

The  minister  smiled  and  -then  frowned. 

"You've  forgotten  your  Catechism,  Michael,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  study  it  as  you  should." 

The  boy  bubbled  with  mirth.  Smiles  chased  across  his 
face  like  gleams  of  sunshine  across  a  cloud. 

"  I  do,"  he  rejoined,  righteously.  "  Jake,  he  fought  me 
on  o'count  o'  it." 

"  The  Catechism !"  exclaimed  the  minister.  "  Jake  fought 
you  because  of  the  Catechism  ?" 

"  It  war  a  word,"  said  the  child.  "Jake  said  it  war  con- 
sarnin'  me  an'  I — " 


6  THE   DESCENDANT 

"What  word?"  the  minister  demanded.  "What  did  the 
word  mean  ?" 

"It  war  an  ugly  word."  The  boy's  eyes  were  dry.  He 
looked  up  inquiringly  from  beneath  blinking  lids.  "  It  war 
dam — damni— 

"  Ah !"  said  the  minister,  in  the  tone  in  which  he  said 
"Amen  "upon  a  Sabbath,  "damnation." 

"Air  it  consarning  me?"  asked  the  child  with  anxious 
uncertainty. 

The  minister  looked  down  into  the  sharp  face  where  the 
gleams  of  sunshine  had  vanished,  and  only  the  cloud  re 
mained.  He  saw  the  wistful  eyes  beneath  the  bushy  hair, 
the  soiled,  sunburned  face,  the  traces  of  a  dirty  hand  that 
had  wiped  tears  away  —  the  whole  pitiful  littleness  of  the 
lad.  The  nervous  blinking  of  the  lids  dazzled  him.  They 
opened  and  shut  like  a  flame  that  flickers  and  revives  in  a 
darkened  room. 

"  No,"  he  said,  gently,  "  you  have  nothing  to  do  with 
that,  so  help  me  God." 

Again  the  boy  bubbled  with  life.  Then,  with  a  swift, 
tremulous  change,  he  grew  triumphant.  He  looked  up 
hopefully,  an  eager  anxiety  breaking  his  voice. 

"  It  might  be  consarning  Jake  hisself,"  he  prompted. 

But  the  minister  had  stretched  the  mantle  of  his  creed 
sufficiently. 

"  Go  home,"  he  said  ;  "  the  pigs  are  needing  their  supper. 
What  ?  Eh  ?  Hold  on  a  bit !"  For  the  boy  had  leaped 
off  like  laughter.  "What  about  the  circus  ?  There's  to  be 
no  gadding  into  such  evil  places,  I  hope." 

The  boy's  face  fell.  "  No,  sir,"  he  said.  "  It's  a  quar 
ter,  an'  I  'ain't  got  it." 

"  And  the  other  boys  ?" 

"Jake  Johnson  war  looking  through  a  hole  in  the  fence 
an'  he  wouldn't  let  me  peep  never  so  little." 

"  Oh !"  said  the  minister,  slowly.  He  looked  down  at  his 
boots.  The  road  was  dusty  and  they  were  quite  gray. 
Then  he  blushed  and  looked  at  the  boy.  He  was  thinking 


THE    DESCENDANT  7 

of  the  night  when  he  had  welcomed  him  into  the  world — a 
little  brown  bundle  of  humanity,  unclaimed  at  the  great 
threshold  of  life.  Then  he  thought  of  the  mother,  an  awk 
ward  woman  of  the  fields,  with  a  strapping  figure  and  a  coarse 
beauty  of  face.  He  thought  of  the  hour  when  the  woman 
lay  dying  in  the  little  shanty  beyond  the  mill.  Something 
in  the  dark,  square  face  startled  him.  The  look  in  the  eyes 
was  not  the  look  of  a  woman  of  the  fields,  the  strength  in 
the  bulging  brow  was  more  than  the  strength  of  a  peasant. 

His  code  of  life  was  a  stern  one,  and  it  had  fallen  upon 
stern  soil.  As  the  chosen  ones  of  Israel  beheld  in  Moab  a 
wash-pot,  so  he  and  his  people  saw  in  the  child  only  an  em 
bodied  remnant  of  Jehovah's  wrath. 

But  beneath  the  code  of  righteousness  there  quivered  a 
germ  of  human  kindness. 

"  Er — er,  that's  all,"  he  said,  his  nose  growing  larger  and 
his  chin  shorter.  "You  may  go  —  but  —  how  much  have 
you?  Money,  I  mean — " 

"Eight  cents,"  replied  the  child;  "three  for  blackberry- 
ing,  an'  five  for  findin'  Deacon  Joskins's  speckled  pig  as 
war  lost.  Five  and  three  air  eight — " 

"And  seventeen  more,"  added  the  minister.  "Well, 
here  they  are.  Mind,  now,  learn  your  Catechism,  and  no 
gadding  into  evil  places,  remember  that." 

And  he  walked  down  the  road  with  a  blush  on  his  face 
and  a  smile  in  his  heart. 

The  child  stood  in  the  white  dust  of  the  road.  A  pale 
finger  of  sunshine  struggled  past  him  to  the  ditch  beside 
the  way,  where  a  crimson  blackberry-vine  palpitated  like  a 
vein  leading  to  the  earth's  throbbing  heart.  About  him 
the  glory  waned  upon  the  landscape  and  went  out ;  the 
goldenrod  had  burned  itself  to  ashes.  A  whippoorwill, 
somewhere  upon  the  rotten  fence  rails,  called  out  sharply, 
its  cry  rising  in  a  low,  distressful  wail  upon  the  air  and  los 
ing  itself  among  the  brushwood.  Then  another  answered 
from  away  in  the  meadow,  and  another  from  the  glimmer 
ing  cornfield. 


8  THE   DESCENDANT 

A  mist,  heavy  and  white  as  foam,  was  rising  with  the 
tide  of  night  and  breaking  against  the  foot  of  the  shadowy 
hills. 

The  boy  shifted  upon  his  bare  feet  and  the  dust  rose  in 
a  tiny  cloud  about  him.  Far  in  the  distance  shone  the 
lights  of  the  circus.  He  could  almost  hear  the  sound  of 
many  fiddles.  Behind  him,  near  the  turnpike  branch,  the 
hungry  pigs  were  rooting  in  the  barnyard.  He  started,  and 
the  minister's  money  jingled  in  his  pocket.  In  the  circus- 
tent  were  the  mustang  ponies,  the  elephant,  and  the  fat 
lady.  He  shifted  restlessly.  Perspiration  stood  in  beads 
upon  his  forehead ;  his  shirt  collar  was  warm  and  damp. 
His  eyes  emitted  a  yellow  flame  in  their  nervous  blinking. 
There  was  a  sudden  patter  of  feet,  and  he  went  spinning 
along  the  white  dust  of  the  road. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  circus  was  over.  One  by  one  the  lanterns  went  out ; 
the  tight-rope  walker  wiped  the  paint  and  perspiration  from 
his  face ;  the  clown  laid  aside  his  eternal  smile. 

From  the  opening  in  the  tent  a  thin  stream  of  heated  hu 
manity  passed  into  the  turnpike,  where  it  divided  into  lit 
tle  groups,  some  lingering  around  stationary  wheelbarrows 
upon  which  stood  buckets  of  pink  lemonade,  others  turning 
into  the  branch  roads  that  led  to  the  farm-houses  along 
the  way. 

In  the  midst  of  them,  jostled  helplessly  from  side  to  side, 
moved  that  insignificant  combination  of  brown  flesh  and 
blue  nankeen  known  as  Michael  Akershem.  As  the  crowd 
dwindled  away,  his  pace  quickened  until  he  went  trotting  at 
full  speed  through  the  shadows  that  were  flung  across  the 
deserted  road.  Upon  the  face  of  the  moon,  as  she  looked 
down  upon  his  solitary  little  figure,  there  was  the  derisive 
smile  with  which  crabbed  age  regards  callow  youth  and 
Eternity  regards  Time. 

Perhaps,  had  he  been  wise  enough  to  read  her  face  aright, 
the  graven  exaltation  of  his  own  might  have  given  place  to 
an  expression  more  in  keeping  with  the  cynicism  of  omnis 
cience. 

But  just  then,  as  he  trotted  resolutely  along,  the  planet 
was  of  less  importance  in  his  reverie  than  one  of  the  tallow 
candles  that  illumined  the  circus-tent. 

The  night  was  filled  with  visions,  but  among  them  the 
solar  system  held  no  place.  Over  the  swelling  hills,  along 
the  shadowy  road,  in  the  milky  moonlight,  trooped  the 
splendid  heroes  of  the  circus-ring.  His  mind  was  on  fire 
with  the  light  and  laughter;  and  the  chastened  brilliance 


TO  THE   DESCENDANT 

of  the  night,  the  full  sweep  of  the  horizon,  the  eternal  hills 
themselves  seemed  but  a  fitting  setting  for  his  tinselled  vis 
itants.  The  rustling  of  the  leaves  above  his  head  was  the 
flapping  of  the  elephant's  ears ;  the  shimmer  upon  tufts  of 
goldenrod,  the  yellow  hair  of  the  snake-charmer;  and  the 
quiet  of  the  landscape,  the  breathless  suspense  of  the  ex 
cited  audience. 

As  he  ran,  he  held  his  worn  straw  hat  firmly  in  his  hand. 
His  swinging  strides  impelled  his  figure  from  side  to  side, 
and  before  him  in  the  dust  his  shadow  flitted  like  an  em 
bodied  energy. 

Beneath  the  pallor  of  the  moonlight  the  concentration  of 
his  face  was  revealed  in  grotesque  exaggeration.  His  eyes 
had  screwed  themselves  almost  out  of  vision,  the  constant 
blinking  causing  them  to  flicker  in  shafts  of  light.  Across 
his  forehead  a  dark  vein  ran  like  a  seam  that  had  been  left 
unfelled  by  the  hand  of  Nature. 

From  the  ditch  beside  the  road  rose  a  heavy  odor  of 
white  thunder-blossom.  The  croaking  of  frogs  grew  louder 
as,  one  by  one,  they  trooped  to  their  congress  among  the 
rushes.  The  low  chirping  of  insects  began  in  the  hedges, 
the  treble  of  the  cricket  piercing  shrilly  above  the  base  of 
the  jar-fly.  Some  late  glow-worms  blazed  like  golden  dew- 
drops  in  the  fetid  undergrowth. 

The  boy  went  spinning  along  the  road.  With  the  incon 
sequence  of  childhood  all  the  commonplaces  of  every  day 
seemed  to  have  withered  in  the  light  of  later  events.  The 
farmer  and  his  pigs  had  passed  into  the  limbo  of  forgetable 
things. 

With  the  flickering  lights  of  the  cottage  where  Farmer 
Watkins  lived,  a  vague  uneasiness  settled  upon  him ;  he 
felt  a  half-regret  that  Providence,  in  the  guise  of  the  min 
ister,  had  thought  fit  to  beguile  him  from  the  unpleasant 
path  of  duty.  But  the  regret  was  fleeting,  and  as  he  crawled 
through  a  hole  in  the  fence  he  managed  to  manipulate  his 
legs  as  he  thought  the  rope-walker  would  have  done  under 
the  circumstances. 


THE   DESCENDANT  II 

From  the  kitchen  window  a  stream  of  light  issued,  falling 
upon  the  gravelled  path  without.  Against  the  lighted  in 
terior  he  beheld  the  bulky  form  of  the  farmer,  and  beyond 
him  the  attenuated  shadow  of  the  farmer's  wife  stretching, 
a  depressing  presence,  upon  the  uncarpeted  floor. 

As  the  child  stepped  upon  the  porch  the  sound  of  voices 
caused  him  to  pause  with  abruptness.  A  lonely  turkey, 
roosting  in  the  locust-tree  beside  the  house,  stirred  in  its 
sleep,  and  a  shower  of  leaves  descended  upon  the  boy's 
head.'  He  shook  them  off  impatiently,  and  they  fluttered  to 
his  feet. 

The  farmer  was  speaking.  He  was  a  man  of  peace,  and 
his  tone  had  the  deprecatory  quality  of  one  who  is  talking 
for  the  purpose  of  keeping  another  silent. 

"My  father  never  put  his  hand  to  the  plough,"  said  the 
farmer,  and  he  stooped  to  knock  the  ashes  from  his  pipe ; 
"nor  more  will  I." 

He  spoke  gently,  for  he  was  a  good  man  —  good,  inas 
much  as  he  might  have  been  a  bad  man,  and  was  not.  A 
negative  character  is  most  often  a  virtuous  one,  since  to  be 
wicked  necessitates  action. 

The  voice  of  the  farmer's  wife  flowed  on  in  a  querulous 
monotone. 

"  Such  comes  from  harborin'  the  offspring  of  harlots  and 
what-not,"  she  said.  "  It  air  a  jedgment  from  the  Lord." 

The  child  came  forward  and  stood  in  the  kitchen  door 
way,  scratching  his  left  leg  gently  with  the  toes  of  his  right 
foot.  The  sudden  passage  from  moonlight  into  lamplight 
bewildered  him,  and  he  stretched  out  gropingly  one  wiry 
little  hand.  The  exaltation  of  his  mind  was  chilled  sud 
denly. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  unobserved.  The  farmer  was 
cleaning  his  pipe  with  the  broken  blade  of  an  old  pruning- 
knife,  and  did  not  look  up.  The  farmer's  wife  was  knead 
ing  dough,  and  her  back  was  turned.  All  the  bare  and  sor 
did  aspect  of  the  kitchen,  the  unpolished  walls,  the  pewter 
.dishes  in  the  cupboard,  the  bucket  of  apple  parings  in  the 


12  THE   DESCENDANT 

corner,  struck  the  child  as  a  blight  after  the  garish  color 
of  the  circus-ring.  He  felt  sick  and  ill  at  ease. 

The  monotone  of  the  farmer's  wife  went  relentlessly  on. 
"  A  jedgment  for  harborin'  the  offspring  of  harlots,"  she  re 
peated.  "  God  A'mighty  knows  what  mischief  he  air  work- 
in'  to-night.  He  air  worse  than  a  weasel." 

From  the  child's  face  all  brightness  was  blotted  out. 
His  lips  tightened  until  the  red  showed  in  a  narrow  line, 
paling  from  the  pressure  as  a  scar  pales  that  is  left  from  an 
old  sabre  cut. 

The  farmer  replied  soothingly,  his  hand  wandering  rest 
lessly  through  his  beard.  "  He  air  a  young  child, "  he  said, 
feebly.  "  I  reckon  he  air  too  little  to  work  much." 

Then  he  looked  up  and  saw  the  shrinking  figure  in  the 
doorway.  He  shook  his  head  slowly,  more  in  weariness 
than  wrath. 

"You  hadn't  ought  to  done  it,"  he  murmured,  reproach 
fully.  "  You  hadn't  ought  to  done  it." 

A  sob  stuck  in  the  boy's  throat.  With  a  terrible  revul 
sion  of  feeling,  his  passionate  nature  leaped  into  revolt. 
As  the  fanner's  wife  turned,  he  faced  her  in  sullen  defiance. 

"  I  'ain't  never  seed  nothin'  afore,"  he  said,  doggedly.  "I 
'ain't  never  seed  nothin'  afore." 

It  was  the  justification  he  offered  to  opposing  fate. 

The  woman  turned  upon  him  violently. 

"  You  ingrate  !"  she  cried.  "  A-leaving  me  to  do  your 
dirty  work.  A-sneaking  off  on  meetin'  night  an'  leaving  me 
to  tote  the  slops  when  I  ought  to  led  the  choir.  You  in 
grate  !" 

The  child  looked  pitifully  small  and  lonely.  He  pulled 
nervously  at  the  worn  brim  of  his  straw  hat.  Still  he 
sought  justification  by  facts. 

"  You  are  been  to  meetin'  every  Wednesday  night  sence 
I  war  born,"  he  said,  in  the  same  dogged  tone,  "  an'  I  'ain't 
never  seed  nothin'  afore." 

Then  the  impotence  of  all  explanation  dawned  upon  him 
and  his  defiance  lost  its  sullen  restraint.  He  felt  the  rage 


THE   DESCENDANT  ij 

within  him  burst  like  a  thunder  cloud.  The  lamplight  trem 
bled  in  the  air.  The  plank  floor,  the  pewter  plates,  the 
chromes  pinned  upon  the  wall  passed  in  a  giddy  whirl  be 
fore  his  eyes.  All  his  fire-tinctured  blood  quickened  and 
leaped  through  his  veins  in  a  fever  of  scarlet.  His  face 
darkened  from  brown  to  black  like  the  face  of  a  witch. 
His  thin  lips  were  welded  one  into  the  other,  and  Nature's 
careless  handiwork  upon  his  forehead  palpitated  like  a  visi 
ble  passion. 

He  sprang  forward,  striking  at  vacancy. 

"  I  hate  you !"  he  cried.     "  Curse  you  !     Curse  you  !" 

Then  he  turned  and  rushed  blindly  out  into  the  night.  A 
moment  more  and  he  was  speeding  away  into  the  meadows. 
Like  a  shadow  he  had  fled  from  the  lamplight,  like  a  shadow 
he  had  fled  from  the  gravelled  walk,  and  like  a  shadow  he 
was  fleeing  along  the  turnpike. 

He  was  unconscious  of  all  save  rage,  blinding,  blacken 
ing  rage — a  desire  to  stamp  and  shriek  aloud — to  feel  his 
fingers  closing  upon  something  and  closing  and  closing 
until  the  blood  ran  down.  The  old  savage  instinct  to  kill 
fell  upon  him  like  a  mantle. 

A  surging  of  many  waters  started  in  his  head,  growing 
louder  and  louder  until  the  waters  rose  into  a  torrent,  shut 
ting  out  all  lesser  sounds.  The  sob  in  his  throat  stifled 
him,  and  he  gasped  and  panted  in  the  midst  of  the  moon 
lit  meadows.  Suddenly  he  left  the  turnpike,  dashing  across 
country  with  the  fever  of  a  fox  pursued  by  hounds.  Over 
the  swelling  hills,  where  the  corn -ricks  stood  marshalled 
like  a  spectre  battalion,  he  fled,  spurred  by  the  lash  of  his 
passion.  Beneath  him  the  valley  lay  wrapped  in  a  transpa 
rent  mist;  above  him  a  million  stars  looked  down  in  pas 
sionless  self-poise. 

When  he  had  run  until  he  could  run  no  more,  he  flung 
himself  face  downward  upon  the  earth,  beating  the  dew- 
drenched  weeds  into  shapeless  pulp. 

"  I  hate  'em  !     I  hate  'em  !"  he  cried,  choking  for  speech. 

"Damn — damn — damn  them  all.     I  wish  they  war  all  in 


14  THE    DESCENDANT 

hell.  I  wish  the  whole  world  war  in  hell — the  farmer  and 
the  missis,  and  the  minister  and  little  Luly !  I  wish  every 
body  war  in  hell — everybody  'cept  me  and  the  pigs !" 

He  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair,  tearing  apart  the  matted 
waves.  His  lips  quivered  and  closed  together.  Then  he 
rolled  over  on  his  back  and  lay  looking  up  to  where  the  sky 
closed  like  a  spangled  vault  above  him. 

"  I  hate  'em  !  I  hate  'em  !"  he  cried,  and  his  cry  fell  quiv- 
eringly  against  the  relentless  hills.  "I  hate  'em  !" 

Back  the  faint  echo  came,  ringing  like  the  answering 
whisper  of  a  devil,  "  h-a-t-e  'e-m — e-m— h-a-t-e  !" 

Above  him,  beyond  the  wall  of  stars,  he  knew  that  God 
had  his  throne — God  sitting  in  awful  majesty  before  the 
mouth  of  hell.  He  would  like  to  call  up  to  Him — to  tell 
Him  of  the  wickedness  of  the  farmer's  wife.  He  was  sure 
that  God  would  be  angry  and  send  her  to  hell.  It  was 
strange  that  God  had  overlooked  her  and  allowed  such 
things  to  be.  Then  he  pictured  himself  dying  all  alone  out 
upon  the  hillside  ;  and  the  picture  was  so  tragic  that  he  fell 
to  weeping.  No;  he  would  not  die.  He  would  grow  up 
and  become  a  circus-rider,  and  wear  blue  stockinet  and  gold 
lace.  The  farmer's  wife  and  the  farmer's  ten  children, 
their  ten  braids  all  smoothly  plaited,  would  come  to  watch 
him  ride  the  mustang  ponies,  and  he  would  look  straight 
across  their  heads  and  bow  when  the  people  applauded. 

He  saw  himself  standing  before  the  glittering  footlights, 
with  the  clown  and  the  tight-rope  walker  beside  him,  and 
he  saw  himself,  the  most  dazzling  of  the  trinity,  bowing 
above  the  excited  heads  of  the  farmer's  children. 

Yes,  that  would  be  a  revenge  worth  having. 

He  sat  up  and  looked  about  him.  The  night  was  very 
silent,  and  a  chill  breeze  came  blowing  noiselessly  across 
the  hills.  The  moonlight  shimmered  like  a  crystalline  liquid 
upon  the  atmosphere. 

His  passion  was  over,  and  he  sat,  with  swollen  eyes  and 
quivering  lips,  a  tiny  human  figure  in  the  vast  amphitheatre 
of  Nature. 


THE    DESCENDANT  15 

Beyond  the  stretch  of  pasture  the  open  road  gleamed 
pallid  in  the  distance.  The  inky  shadows  through  which 
he  had  passed  some  hours  ago  seemed  to  have  thrilled  into 
the  phantoms  of  departed  things.  He  wondered  how  he 
had  dared  to  pass  among  them.  Upon  the  adjoining  hill 
he  could  see  the  slender  aspens  in  the  graveyard.  They 
shivered  and  whitened  as  he  looked  at  them.  At  their  feet 
the  white  tombstones  glimmered  amid  rank  periwinkle.  In 
a  rocky  corner  he  knew  that  there  was  one  grave  isolated  in 
red  clay  soil — one  outcast  from  among  the  righteous  dead. 

He  felt  suddenly  afraid  of  the  wicked  ghost  that  might 
arise  from  that  sunken  grave.  He  was  afraid  of  the  aspens 
and  the  phantoms  in  the  road.  With  a  sob  he  crouched 
down  upon  the  hillside,  looking  upward  at  the  stars.  He 
wondered  what  they  were  made  of — if  they  were  really 
holes  cut  in  the  sky  to  let  the  light  of  heaven  stream 
through. 

The  night  wind  pierced  his  cotton  shirt,  and  he  fell  to 
crying  softly ;  but  there  was  no  one  to  hear. 

At  last  the  moon  vanished  behind  a  distant  hill,  a  gray 
line  in  the  east  paled  into  saffron,  and  the  dawn  looked 
down  upon  him  like  a  veiled  face.  Presently  there  was  a 
stir  at  the  farm,  and  the  farmer's  wife  came  from  the  cow- 
pen  with  a  pail  of  frothy  milk  in  her  hand. 

When  she  had  gone  into  the  house  the  boy  left  the  hill 
side  and  crept  homeward.  He  was  sore  and  stiff,  and  his 
clothes  were  drenched  with  the  morning  dew.  He  felt  all 
alone  in  a  very  great  world,  and  the  only  beings  he  regarded 
as  companions  were  the  pigs  in  the  barn-yard.  His  heart 
reproached  him  that  he  had  not  given  them  their  supper. 

The  turnpike  was  chill  and  lonely  as  he  passed  along  it. 
All  the  phantoms  had  taken  wings  unto  themselves  and 
flown.  Upon  the  rail-fence  the  dripping  trumpet-vine  hung 
in  limp  festoons,  yellow  and  bare  of  bloom.  He  paused  to 
gather  a  persimmon  that  had  fallen  into  the  road  from  a 
tree  beyond  the  fence,  but  it  set  his  teeth  on  edge  and  he 
threw  it  away*  A  rabbit,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  clump  o£ 


l6  THE    DESCENDANT 

brushwood,  turned  to  glance  at  him  with  bright,  suspicious 
eyes.  Then,  as  he  drew  nearer,  it  darted  across  the  road 
and  between  the  rails  into  the  pasture.  The  boy  limped 
painfully  along.  His  joints  hurt  him  when  he  moved,  and 
his  feet  felt  like  hundredweights.  He  wondered  if  he  was 
not  going  to  die  shortly,  and  thought  regretfully  of  the  blue 
stockinet  and  tinsel  which  he  could  not  carry  with  him  into 
an  eternity  of  psalm-singing. 

Reaching  the  house,  he  seated  himself  upon  the  step  of  the 
porch  and  looked  with  miserable  eyes  at  the  kitchen  window. 
The  smell  of  steaming  coffee  floated  out  to  him,  and  he 
heard  the  clinking  of  cups  and  saucers.  Through  the  open 
window  he  beheld  the  bustling  form  of  the  farmer's  wife. 

Then,  with  a  cautious  movement,  the  door  opened  and 
the  farmer  came  out  upon  the  porch.  He  glanced  hesi 
tatingly  around  and,  upon  seeing  the  boy,  vanished  precip 
itately,  to  reappear  bearing  a  breakfast-plate. 

The  child  caught  a  glimpse  of  batter-bread  and  bacon, 
and  his  eyes  glistened.  He  seized  it  eagerly.  The  farmer 
drew  a  chair  near  the  doorway  and  seated  himself  beneath 
the  bunch  of  red  pepper  that  hung  drying  from  the  sash. 
He  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  boy.  They  were  dull  and 
watery,  like  the  eyes  of  a  codfish. 

"  You  hadn't  ought  to  done  it,  sonny,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"  You  hadn't  ought  to  done  it." 

Then  he  drew  a  small  quid  of  tobacco  from  his  pocket 
and  began  to  unwind  the  wrapping  with  laborious  care. 
"  It  war  a  fine  show,  I  reckon,"  he  added. 

The  child  nodded  with  inanimate  acquiescence.  It  all 
seemed  so  long  ago,  the  color  and  the  splendor.  It  might 
as  well  have  taken  place  in  ancient  Rome. 

The  farmer  reached  leisurely  down  into  the  pocket  of  his 
jeans  trousers  and  drew  out  the  old  pruning-knife.  Then  he 
cut  off  a  small  square  of  tobacco  and  put  it  in  his  mouth. 

"  Sence  it  war  a  fine  show,"  he  said,  reflectively,  "  I  wish 
I'd  ha'  done  it  myself." 

And  he  fell  to  chewing  with  a  sigh. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  child  grew  apace.  He  shot  upward  with  the  im 
provident  growth  of  a  weed  that  has  sprung  in  a  wheat- 
field.  The  changing  seasons  only  served  to  render  his  hold 
upon  life  more  tenacious  and  his  will  more  indomitable. 
And,  by -and -by,  the  child  became  the  youth  and  waxed 
strong  and  manly.  At  nineteen  he  was  lithe  and  straight 
as  a  young  pine.  Slightly  above  the  average  height,  he 
had  the  look  of  a  sturdy,  thickset  farmer,  but  with  more 
than  a  farmer's  breadth  of  brow.  The  dark  hair  still  grew 
in  a  tangled  mat  upon  his  head,  his  features  had  rough 
ened,  and  the  lines  in  his  face  were  deeply  hewn.  His  jaws 
were  strongly  marked,  and  he  had  thin,  flexible  lips  that 
quivered  with  reserve  or  paled  with  passion.  Beneath  the 
projecting  brows  his  eyes  were  narrowed  by  a  constant 
blinking. 

Between  himself  and  his  little  world  there  was  drawn  an 
invisible  circle.  The  shadow  that  moved  before  or  followed 
after  him  was  a  moral  plague  spot  to  the  vision  of  his 
neighbors.  If,  with  a  spasmodic  endeavor,  they  sought  oc 
casionally  to  rescue  this  stray  brand  from  the  burning,  the 
rescue  was  attempted  with  gloved  hands  and  a  mental 
pitchfork.  In  periods  of  relaxation  from  personal  purifica 
tion,  they  played  with  the  boy  as  children  play  with  fire.  It 
was  the  only  excitement  they  permitted  themselves. 

As  for  the  brand  himself,  he  made  the  mistake  of  re 
garding  the  situation  from  a  personal  standpoint.  Feeding 
the  flame  as  he  did,  he  naturally  was  unable  to  appreciate 
the  vantage-ground  of  those  who  were  only  singed  by  it, 
and  consequently  in  a  position  to  enjoy  that  thrill  of  possi 
ble  danger  which  is  only  enjoyable  because  the  danger  is 


THE    DESCENDANT 


not  possible   at  all.     Being  'insensible  to  any  danger,  he 
failed  to  experience  the  thrill. 

But  what  he  did  experience  was  a  silent  rage  that  in  the 
end  froze  into  a  silent  bitterness.  As  we  all  look  upon  life 
through  the  shadows  which  we  ourselves  cast  upon  it,  so 
the  facts  of  organic  existence  shape  themselves  in  our  hori 
zon  conformably  with  the  circumstances  which  have  shaped 
our  individual  natures.  We  see  large  or  small,  symmetrical 
or  distorted  forms,  not  according  to  external  forces  which 
have  played  upon  external  objects,  but  according  to  the  ad 
justment  of  light  and  shade  about  our  individual  lenses. 
Truth  is  only  truth  in  its  complexity  ;  our  convictions  are 
only  real  in  their  relativity.  But  Michael  had  not  learned 
this.  He  still  believed  in  his  own  ability  to  make  plain 
the  crooked  ways  of  his  neighbors1  consciences.  Socrates 
believed  this,  and  where  had  arisen  a  greater  than  Soc 
rates?  Perhaps  the  one  thing  which  Socrates  and  Michael 
had  in  common  was  a  faith  in  the  power  of  truth  and  the 
impotence  of  error;  but  then,  Socrates  and  Michael  each 
followed  a  different  truth.  Only  the  name  of  their  divinity 
was  the  same  —  his  face  was  different. 

So  Michael  saw  the  village  doors  close  upon  him,  and 
laughed.  He  saw  the  girls  pass  him  by  with  averted  mod 
esty  and  turn  to  look  after  him,  and  laughed  again.  He 
saw  them,  one  and  all,  watching  with  a  vulgar  interest  for 
the  inheritance  to  creep  out  and  the  blood  to  show  —  and 
he  sneered  outwardly  while  he  raged  within. 

He  was  a  bright  lad.  The  school-master  had  said  so, 
and  the  school-master  was  right.  Easily  he  outstripped  all 
the  hardy  farmers'  louts  in  the  class,  and  easily,  in  the  end, 
he  had  outstripped  the  school-master  himself.  Then  the 
minister  had  taken  him  in  hand,  and  before  long  he  had 
outstripped  the  minister. 

"  Here  are  my  books,"  the  minister  had  said,  "make  use 
of  them."  And  he  had  looked  over  his  shoulder  to  see 
that  blue-eyed  Emily  was  afar.  He  was  a  bright  lad,  but- 
well,  blood  is  blood. 


THE    DESCENDANT  iq 

And  Michael  bad  made  use  of  the  books.  He  had  fed 
upon  them  and  he  had  laid  up  a  store  of  capital.  One  and 
all,  he  had  read  them  and  absorbed  them  and  pondered 
over  them,  and  one  and  all  he  had  disbelieved  them. 

The  minister  handed  him  "The  Lives  of  the  Saints," 
and  the  next  day  he  had  brought  it  back,  throwing  it  down 
upon  the  table. 

"  A  lot  of  pig-headed  idiots,"  he  said,  with  his  lip  curling 
and  his  grating  laugh,  "  who  hadn't  enough  sense  to  know 
whether  they  were  awake  or  asleep." 

The  minister  shuddered  and  recoiled. 

"  Be  silent,"  he  said.  "  If  you  have  no  respect  for  me,  at 
least  show  some  for  God  and  the  holy  men  who  represent 
Him." 

"  Fiddlesticks  !"  said  Michael.  "They  were  so  befud 
dled  that  they  got  God  and  the  devil  mixed,  that's  all." 

But  he  laid  the  book  aside  and  helped  the  minister 
about  his  copying.  He  was  not  without  a  wayward  regard 
for  worth.  He  was  only  warm  with  his  fresh  young  blood 
and  throbbing  with  vitality.  The  restless  activity  of  mind 
could  not  be  checked.  The  impassioned  pursuit  of  knowl 
edge  was  sweeping  him  onward.  Self-taught  he  was  and 
self-made  he  would  be.  The  genius  of  endurance  was  fit 
ting  him  to  struggle,  and  in  the  struggle  to  survive. 

So  he  drew  out  the  minister's  dog-eared  sermon  and  set 
about  the  copying.  He  had  copied  such  sermons  before, 
and  it  was  a  task  he  rather  enjoyed,  given  the  privilege  of 
making  amendments  —  which  the  minister  good-naturedly 
granted.  As  for  the  minister  himself,  perhaps  he  remem 
bered  the  occasions  upon  which  the  boy  had  written  ser 
mons  as  compositions,  and  how  he  had  delivered  them  as 
substitutes  for  old  ones  of  his  own  which  had  worn  thread 
bare.  In  his  simple-minded  search  for  divine  purposes, 
the  cleverness  of  the  lad  appeared  inexplicable.  That  the 
hand  of  the  Almighty  should  have  overreached  a  flock  of 
his  elect  to  quicken  with  consuming  fire  the  mind  of  an 
Ishmaelite  seemed  suspiciously  like  one  of  those  stumb- 


20  THE   DESCENDANT 

ling-stones  to  faith  which  we  accept  as  tests  of  the  blind 
ness  of  our  belief. 

That  Michael  knew  more  philosophy  than  he,  he  had  ac 
knowledged  cheerfully,  and  now  he  was  fast  beginning  to 
harbor  a  suspicion  that  Michael  knew  more  theology  as 
well. 

He  heaved  a  perplexed  sigh  and  went  to  interview  a  con 
sumptive  concerning  his  spiritual  condition,  while  Michael 
dipped  his  pen  in  the  inkstand  and  fell  to  work. 

It  was  a  moment  such  as  he  enjoyed,  when  his  intellec 
tual  interests  were  uppermost  and  his  mind  eager  to  seize 
an  abstract  train  of  thought.  He  remembered  such  exalta 
tions  during  the  long  winter  nights  when  he  had  sat  up 
with  a  tallow  candle  and  attacked  the  problems  of  politi 
cal  economy.  He  had  spent  plodding  hours  in  mastering 
them,  but  mastered  them  he  had.  The  dogged  endurance 
of  mind  had  perhaps  served  him  better  than  any  natural 
quickness. 

The  remembrance  of  those  winter  nights  turned  the 
channel  of  his  thoughts,  and  from  the  minister's  sermon  he 
passed  to  larger  premises  and  wider  demonstrations.  Push 
ing  the  paper  aside,  he  leaned  back  against  the  cushioned 
back  of  the  minister's  chair  and  allowed  his  gaze  to  wander 
from  the  sheets  before  him  to  the  flower-beds  in  the  garden 
below,  and  then,  past  the  wood-pile,  where  the  hickory  chips 
had  rotted  to  mould,  to  the  jagged  line  of  purple  mountains. 
The  landscape  was  radiant  with  color.  As  the  sunlight  fell 
over  them  the  meadows  deepened  in  opalescent  tints,  pur 
pling  with  larkspur,  yellowing  with  dandelion,  and  whitening 
to  a  silver  sweep  of  life  everlasting. 

Across  Michael's  lips  a  smile  passed  faintly,  like  the 
ripple  of  sunlight  upon  a  murky  pool.  He  put  up  his  hand 
and  brushed  a  lock  of  hair  from  his  brow.  He  looked  sud 
denly  younger  and  more  boyish.  Then  his  reverie  was 
broken  by  a  sound  of  footsteps.  The  lattice  door  in  the 
passage  opened  and  shut,  and  a  shadow  passed  across  the 
chintz  curtain  at  the  window.  He  heard  voices,  at  first 


THE    DESCENDANT  21 

broken  and  indistinct,  and  then  clearer,  as  his  mind  left  its 
cloudy  heights  and  returned  to  commonplaces. 

One  was  the  gentle  voice  of  the  minister's  wife.  "And 
if  you  can  help  me  out  with  the  custard-spoons,"  it  said, 
"  I'll  be  mightily  obliged.  I  have  a  dozen  of  mother's,  to 
be  sure,  but,  somehow,  I  don't  just  like  to  use  them.  If  you 
can  let  me  have  ten,  I  reckon  I  can  manage  to  make  out 
with  them  and  some  tin  ones  Aunt  Lucy  sent  me  last 
Christmas." 

The  other  voice  was  sharper  and  brisker. 

"  I  reckon  I  can  piece  out  a  dozen,"  it  returned,  with  the 
ringing  emphasis  of  one  eager  to  oblige.  "  If  I  can't,  I'll 
just  borrow  them  from  old  Mrs.  Cade  without  saying  what 
I  want  with  'em.  And  I'll  send  all  the  things  over  by  Tim 
othy  as  soon  as  I  get  home — the  custard-spoons,  and  the 
salver  for  the  cake,  and  the  parlor  lamp.  If  that  glass 
stand  for  butter  ain't  too  badly  cracked,  I'll  send  that  along 
too;  and  I'll  be  over  in  plenty  of  time  to  help  you  set  the 
tables  and  fix  things." 

A  murmur  of  thanks  followed  in  the  gentle  tones,  and 
then  the  brisker  ones  began. 

"  You'll  have  a  first-rate  evening  for  the  party,"  they  ob 
served.  "  When  I  got  up  this  morning  the  wind  was  in  the 
east,  but  it  has  shifted  round  again.  Well,  I'll  send  the 
things  all  right." 

"  I'm  mightily  obliged,"  responded  the  minister's  wife,  in 
her  repressed  manner.  "  I  hope  it  warn't  any  trouble  for 
you  to  bake  the  cake — our  stove  draws  so  poorly.  It  seems 
a  heap  of  work  to  go  to,  but  the  minister  never  can  deny 
Emily  anything ;  and,  after  all,  a  birthday  tea  ain't  much  to 
do  for  her.  She's  a  good  child." 

The  other  voice  chimed  in  with  cordial  assent.  "  If  a 
little  party  makes  her  happy,  I  reckon  you  don't  begrudge 
the  work.  She  won't  be  sixteen  but  once,  I  say,  and  it's 
just  as  well  to  do  what  we  can." 

"If  it  makes  her  happy,"  added  the  gentle  voice,  and 
then  it  sighed  softly.  "  There's  always  a  cloud,"  it  said. 


22  THE   DESCENDANT 

44  To  be  sure,  this  is  a  very  little  one,  but,  as  I  told  the 
minister,  it  was  the  prophet's  little  cloud  that  raised  the 
storm." 

It  was  silent  for  a  moment  and  then  spoke  sadly. 

"  It's  about  Michael,"  it  said. 

The  brisker  tones  drooped. 

"  That  boy !" 

"Well,  the  minister's  compassions  are  great,  you  know, 
and  he  can't  feel  just  easy  about  not  asking  him.  Of 
course,  we  must  consider  the  other  young  folks,  but  the 
minister  says  it  don't  seem  to  him  human  to  leave  him 
out." 

"  Of  course,  I  ain't  as  fit  to  judge  as  the  minister,  but  I 
know  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  him  around  with  my  Lucy. 
And  it  seems  to  me  that  it  ain't  right  to  encourage  him  in 
familiarity— with  his  birth,  too." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  soft  voice,  deprecatingly,  "  but  the 
minister  can't  feel  easy  about  it.  He  says  he  knows  Christ 
would  have  had  him." 

The  brisk  tones  rose  in  an  ejaculation. 

"But  the  Lord  never  lived  in  such  times  as  these!" 

"  I  can't  help  its  worrying  me,"  continued  the  minister's 
wife,  "  and  Emily  is  just  like  her  father — all  tenderness  and 
impulse.  It  does  seem  hard—  Then  the  voice  changed 
suddenly.  "  Oh,  you  wanted  the  nutmeg  grater,"  it  said. 
"  I  forgot  all  about  it." 

And  the  lattice  door  opened  and  shut  quickly. 

When  the  minister  came  in  a  while  later  he  found  Mi 
chael  standing  beside  the  desk,  his  clenched  hand  resting 
upon  the  lid.  At  his  feet  lay  the  uncopied  sermon.  It 
was  crumpled  and  torn,  as  if  it  had  been  held  in  a  brutal 
grasp.  The  boy's  lips  were  pale  and  a  yellow  rage  flickered 
in  his  eyes.  As  the  minister  paused,  he  confronted  him. 

"  I  hate  these  people  !"  he  cried.  "  I  hate  them!  I  hate 
everybody  who  has  come  near  this  place.  I  hate  my  father 
because  he  was  a  villain.  I  hate  my  mother  because  she 
was  a  fool." 


THE   DESCENDANT  23 

He  said  it  vehemently,  his  impassioned  glance  closing 
upon  the  minister.  The  minister  quavered.  The  genial 
smile  with  which  he  had  entered  faded  from  his  face.  He 
had  faced  such  storms  before  and  they  always  stunned 
him. 

"I — i  feel  for  you,"  he  stammered,  "but— "and  he  was 
silent.  The  boy  stood  upon  other  ground  than  his,  and  he 
could  not  follow  him  ;  he  saw  with  other  eyes,  and  the  light 
blinded  him.  In  his  veins  the  blood  of  two  diverse  natures 
met  and  mingled,  and  they  formed  a  third  —  a  mental  hy 
brid.  The  spirit  that  walked  within  him  was  a  dual  one — 
a  spirit  of  toil,  a  spirit  of  ease;  a  spirit  of  knowledge,  a 
spirit  of  ignorance ;  a  spirit  of  improvidence,  a  spirit  of 
thrift;  a  spirit  of  submission,  a  spirit  of  revolt. 

"  I  hate  them  all !"  repeated  Michael. 

His  scorching  gaze  blazed  through  the  open  window  and 
seemed  to  wither  the  beds  of  flowering  portulacca  in  the 
garden.  "  I  hate  these  people  with  their  creeds  and  their 
consciences.  They  dare  to  spit  upon  me,  that  I  am  not  as 
clean  as  they.  I  hate  them  all !" 

From  without  the  full-throated  call  of  a  cat-bird  floated 
into  the  room.  Then  it  grew  fainter  and  was  lost  in  the 
graveyard.  Michael's  face  was  dark  and  ugly.  All  the  in 
growing  bitterness  of  his  youth  was  finding  an  outlet. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?"  he  cried,  passionately.  "  What 
have  I  done  ?  Is  it  my  fault  that  the  laws  of  nature  do  not 
wait  upon  marriage  banns?  Is  it  my — "  He  paused  sud 
denly. 

"I — I  am  sure  that  you  misjudge' them,"  said  the  minis 
ter.  "  I  am  sure  that — 

The  door  opened,  and  his  own  pretty  Emily,  her  blue 
eyes  all  alight,  darted  into  the  room.  Michael's  eyes  fell 
upon  her,  and,  unconsciously  to  himself,  they  softened. 

The  minister  saw  tbe  softening,  and  he  stammered  and 
grew  confused.  He  fell  back  as  if  to  shelter  the  girl  irom 
the  look,  pushing  her  hastily  into  an  adjoining  room. 

"  Go — go,  my  dear — your  mother  wants  you,  I  am  sure  of 


24  THE   DESCENDANT 

it."     Then  he  turned  and   took  up  his   speech.     "I I 

am — "  and  his  conscience  stung  him  and  he  blushed  and 
stammered  again.  Michael  laughed  shortly.  There  was 
something  brutal  in  the  sound  of  it. 

"  Your  daughter  is  safe,"  he  said.  "  I  will  turn  my  eyes 
away." 

And  the  minister  blushed  redder  than  before. 

There  was  something  masterful  about  the  boy,  and  he 
had  the  brow  of  a  genius,  but— well,  girls  will  be  girls,  and 
there's  no  telling. 

Michael  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  at  the 
flower-beds  in  the  garden. '  Then  he  turned  and  faced  the 
minister,  all  the  bitterness  of  his  warped  and  sullen  nature 
in  his  voice. 

"  I  want  to  get  away,"  he  said.  "  Anywhere  that  I  am 
not  known— anywhere.  I  can  work.  I  can  work  my  fingers 
to  the  bone — but  I  must  get  away." 

The  minister  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  I  could  help  you  a  little,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  Say,  lend 
you  enough  to  pay  your  passage  to,  and  a  week's  board  in, 
New  York.  Such  a  bright  fellow  must  find  work.  And,' 
by-the-by,  I've  a  cousin  in  the  grocery  business  there; 
perhaps  he  could  get  you  a  job — " 

He  said  it  honestly,  for  he  wished  well  to  the  boy ;  and 
yet  there  was  a  secret  satisfaction  in  the  chance  of  getting 
rid  of  hfm,  of  losing  the  responsibility  of  one  stray  sheep. 
God,  in  his  wisdom,  might  redeem  him,  but  the  minister 
felt  that  the  task  was  one  for  omnipotent  hands  to  under 
take.  It  was  too  difficult  for  him.  If  the  Lord  could  un 
ravel  the  meshes  of  Satan,  he  couldn't,  and  it  shouldn't  be 
expected  of  him. 

"  I'll  go,"  said  Michael.  He  said  it  with  determination, 
bringing  his  quivering  hand  down  upon  the  table.  "I'll 
go.  I'd  rather  die  anywhere  else  than  live  here— but  I 
won't  die.  I'll  succeed.  I'll  live  to  make  you  envy  me 
yet." 

A  sudden  flame  had  kindled  in  his  eyes.     It  shot  fitfully 


THE   DESCENDANT  25 

forth  between  the  twitching  lids.  He  became  infused  with 
life_with  a  passionate  vitality,  strong  to  overcome. 

"  I'll  go  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

He  left  the  minister's  house,  walking  briskly  down  the  nar 
row  path  leading  to  the  whitewashed  gate.  At  the  gate  he 
paused  and  looked  back.  In  a  patch  of  vivid  sunshine  that 
fell  upon  an  arbor  of  climbing  rose  he  saw  the  blue  flutter 
of  pretty  Emily's  skirts.  She  put  back  the  hair  from  her 
eyes  and  stood  gazing  after  him,  an  expression  of  childish 
curiosity  upon  her  face.  All  the  joy  of  life  at  that  moment 
seemed  filtered  through  the  sunlight  upon  her  head. 

He  sighed  and  passed  onward.  Upon  the  steps  of  the 
farmer's  cottage  sat  a  plump  child  in  a  soiled  pinafore.  It 
was  little  Luly,  the  youngest  of  the  farmer's  ten  children. 
As  he  entered  the  house  she  rose  and  trotted  after  him  on 
her  plump  little  legs. 

In  the  doorway  he  was  met  by  the  farmer's  wife.  She 
held  a  pan  of  watermelon  rinds  in  her  hand.  "  Take  these 
here  rinds  to  the  pig-pen,"  she  said,  "  an'  then  you  kin  draw 
some  water  fur  dinner.  There  ain't  none  left  in  the  water- 
bucket."  The  boy  looked  at  her  silently.  He  was  debat 
ing  in  his  mind  the  words  in  which  he  would  renounce  her 
service.  He  had  often  enacted  the  scene  in  imagination, 
and  in  such  visions  he  had  beheld  himself  rising  in  right 
eous  wrath  and  defying  the  farmer's  wife  with  dramatic 
gestures.  Now,  somehow,  it  all  seemed  very  stale  and 
flat,  and  he  couldn't  think  of  just  what  to  say.  The  woman 
was  harder  to  confront  in  real  life  than  she  had  been  in  his 
dreams.  He  wished  he  had  gone  away  without  saying  any 
thing  to  anybody. 

At  last  he  spoke  with  a  labored  emphasis. 

"  I  won't  feed  the  pigs,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  sounded 
half  apologetic,  "  and  I  won't  draw  the  water ;  I  am  going 
away." 

At  the  dinner-table  the  farmer  was  sitting  before  a  plate 
of  cabbage.  He  removed  his  knife  slowly  from  his  mouth 
and  regarded  the  boy  with  mild  amazement, 


26  THE    DESCENDANT 

"An'  the  crops  ain't  in,"  he  murmured,  reproachfully. 

The  farmer's  wife  set  the  pan  on  the  table  and  wiped  her 
face  upon  the  corner  of  her  gingham  apron. 

"  You  ain't  goin'  fur  good,  I  reckon  ?"  she  suggested. 

Michael  stood  awkwardly  before  her.  He  had  expected 
vituperation,  and  when  it  did  not  come  he  felt  curiously 
ashamed  of  his  resolve. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  long  pause  between  his  words, 
"  yes ;  I  am  going  for  good — I  am  not  coming  back  ever 
any  more.  I  am  going  for  good." 

A  stifled  wail  broke  from  little  Luly.  "An'  you  'ain't 
made  my  water-wheel,"  she  cried.  "You  'ain't  made  my — 

Her  mother  silenced  her,  and  then  looked  at  Michael  in 
rising  anger. 

"  You  kin  go  as  fast  as  you  please,"  she  said.  "It'll  be 
a  good  riddance.  I  won't  hev  my  children  mixin'  with  the 
offspring  of  har — " 

But  Michael  had  flung  himself  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  Old  Dominion  steamed  slowly  into  the  New  York 
wharf,  and  her  passengers  made  a  precipitate  rush  for  the 
gangway.  Among  those  who  left  the  third-class  cabin 
there  was  an  awkward  youth  in  an  ill-fitting  suit  of  clothes 
and  a  cheap  straw  hat.  From  his  right  hand  was  suspend 
ed  a  small  bundle  which  held  all  his  earthly  possessions  of 
a  tangible  quality.  His  capital  he  carried  in  his  brain. 

As  he  stepped  from  the  gangway  to  the  wharf  he  hesi 
tated  and  fell  back,  confused  by  the  din  of  traffic. 

"  Step  lively  there  !"  called  some  one  from  behind,  and 
the  young  man  collected  himself  with  a  shake  and  started 
down  the  long  wharf  amidst  a  medley  of  boxes,  trucks,  and 
horses'  feet. 

"  If  you  air  looking  for  New  York  I  guess  you  won't  find 
it  in  that  direction,"  remarked  a  laborer  who  was  winding  a 
coil  of  rope  at  some  little  distance. 

Michael  turned,  his  face  reddening,  and  retraced  his  steps 
to  his  starting-point,  from  whence  he  made  a  fresh  venture. 

The  tumult  bewildered  him.  He  was  feeling  strangely 
homesick,  and  there  was  a  curious  weakness  in  the  pit  of 
his  stomach.  It  was  as  if  he  were  passing  to  a  scaffold  of 
his  own  erecting.  He  wondered  how  so  many  people  could 
ever  have  come  to  New  York.  Surely,  if  he  had  known 
what  it  was  like,  he  would  have  remained  where  his  lines 
had  fallen  until  death  had  readjusted  them.  He  had  never 
heard  so  much  noise  in  his  life,  not  even  in  Arlington  on 
court  day. 

But  when  at  last  the  shipping  district  lay  behind  him 
and  he  turned  into  Sixth  Avenue,  his  youth  and  energy  com 
bined  to  reassure  him,  and  a  flush  of  excitement  revived 


28  THE    DESCENDANT 

something  of  his  dominant  bearing.  Even  the  knowledge 
that  his  trousers  bagged  hopelessly,  which  dawned  upon 
him  like  a  revelation,  was  not  sufficient  to  check  the  rising 
exaltation  of  spirit.  It  was  like  being  born  again  to  start 
upon  life  with  no  ties  in  the  past  to  bind  one  —  with  no 
past,  only  a  future.  His  second  birth  would  be  free  from 
the  curse  that  had  descended  upon  his  first.  He  would 
make  himself,  let  the  weathercock  of  circumstances  veer 
beneath  ill- winds  as  it  would.  Circumstances  crumble  be 
fore  a  determined  mind. 

Yes ;  with  two  hands  and  a  brain  to  guide  them  he  would 
create  a  new  Michael  Akershem,  as  God  had  created  a  new 
Adam.  He  had  the  power — there  was  nothing  beyond  him 
— nothing. 

With  a  vigorous  gesture  he  threw  back  his  head  and  sur 
veyed  his  surroundings.  He  regarded  them  with  the  curi 
osity  with  which  a  thinking  infant  might  regard  the  universe 
as  it  sprang  into  existence. 

Several  points  about  the  city  impressed  him,  fresh  from 
his  primitive  environments  ;  first  the  size,  secondly  the  ug 
liness,  and  thirdly  the  indifference.  No  one  noticed  him, 
no  one  turned  to  look  after  him,  and  when  he  jostled  any 
body  they  accepted  his  apology  without  seeing  him  or 
knowing  what  he  meant.  In  the  beginning  it  was  refresh 
ing,  and  he  thrilled  with  the  knowledge  of  freedom.  Here, 
his  right  was  unquestioned,  his  identity  ignored ;  he  was 
but  one  atom  moving  in  its  given  line  amidst  many  thou 
sands.  Then  the  denseness  of  population  oppressed  him, 
humanity  jammed  into  a  writhing  mass,  like  maggots  in  a 
cheese.  The  tenements,  with  their  smoke-stained  windows 
— their  air  of  dignified  squalor — seemed  to  cut  off  all  means 
of  ventilation.  He  examined  them  curiously,  pausing  on  the 
sidewalk  to  look  upward,  dazed  by  their  height  and  by  the 
number  of  their  tenants.  He  laughed  at  the  fire-escapes, 
spindling  from  the  roof,  at  the  inevitable  geranium  in  its 
tomato-can,  stunted  and  bare  of  bloom,  the  burlesque  of  a 
living  flower. 


THE   DESCENDANT  29 

On  the  Bowery  he  found  a  cheap  restaurant  with  a  sign 
reading,  "Corned-beef  &  Onions,  10  cents,"  and  he  went 
inside  and  got  breakfast  at  the  counter.  Then  he  came 
out  and  set  about  making  his  fortune. 

That  was  the  first  day,  and  on  that  day  he  went  into 
twelve  offices  seeking  employment.  Upon  the  second  day 
he  went  into  twenty-four  ;  upon  the  third,  fifty.  At  the  end 
of  the  third  day  his  courage  faltered,  at  the  end  of  the 
fourth  it  failed,  and  at  the  end  of  the  fifth  it  oozed  rapidly 
away. 

He  wandered  restlessly  about  the  streets.  He  no  longer 
feared  the  crowd,  he  no  longer  feared  anything.  He  was 
desperate  and  hungry,  like  an  untamed  animal.  Corned- 
beef  and  onions  at  ten  cents  are  cheap,  but  when  one  has 
not  the  ten  cents  they  might  as  well  be  twenty. 

"  I  want  work,"  he  said  to  the  foreman  of  some  machine 
shops. 

"  Work !"  repeated  the  man.  "  Why,  there  are  a  thou 
sand  men  outside  wanting  work  as  hard  as  you,  and  as  lit 
tle  likely  to  get  it." 

"It's  my  right,"  cried  Michael,  hotly;  "the  world  owes 
me  a  living  and  I'll  have  it." 

"  The  world  owes  you  a  living,  very  probably,"  said  the 
man,  "but you'll  find  it  deuced  hard  to  collect.  The  world's 
a  bad  debtor." 

He  had  gone  out  with  an  impotent  curse  upon  the  des 
tiny  that  held  his  leading-strings.  It  was  unjust !  It  was 
damnable ! 

The  sunshine  blinded  him.  He  was  young  and  strong 
and  vibrating  with  energy,  and  yet,  in  the  prodigal  waste  of 
Nature,  this  strength  and  energy  were  held  of  less  account 
than  the  blowing  of  the  wind.  The  former  exultation  of 
mind  recoiled  upon  him  in  a  wave  of  bitterness  and  dwin 
dled  to  a  slough  of  despond. 

In  the  beginning  he  had  sought  only  for  a  situation  in 
which  there  might  chance  a  rise.  He  had  taken  his  brain 
into  consideration,  and  in  imagination  he  had  allowed  his 


30  THE   DESCENDANT 

ambition  full  play.  Now,  in  the  delirium  of  apparent  failure, 
he  cried  out  that  for  manual  labor  alone  he  was  fitted,  and 
that  his  dream  of  mental  power  was  but  the  self-deception 
of  a  fool.  Then  it  was  that  he  went  to  the  wharf  at  which 
he  had  landed,  and  asked  for  a  job  at  the  trucking. 

It  was  given  him,  a  substitute  being  needed  in  place  of 
one  of  the  employe's  who  had  been  injured. 

For  a  week  Michael  worked  at  the  wharf  among  the  com 
mon  laborers.  He  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  negro 
hands  and  swung  freight  across  the  gang-plank.  It  was  the 
roughest  work  that  he  had  ever  done,  and  his  hands  grew 
redder  and  more  knotted  and  his  shoulders  lost  their  up 
rightness. 

With  the  loading  of  the  vessels  frenzy  seized  upon  him, 
and  he  worked  at  the  high-pressure  of  insanity.  Then,  in 
the  hours  of  leisure,  the  vultures  of  disappointed  hopes 
preyed  upon  his  vitals,  and  he  faced  life  as  Prometheus 
faced  Jove.  In  all  the  years  that  came,  the  scars  that  those 
days  wrought  were  not  obliterated. 

When  the  injured  man  returned  the  job  was  lost,  and  he 
went  from  the  shipping-port  with  brutal  inconsequence. 

But  Fate  had  not  wearied  of  her  puppet.  He  was  yet  to 
know  the  worst. 

Night  and  day  he  walked  the  streets,  hungry  and  defiant. 
During  the  day  he  watched  the  world  in  its  fevered  haste, 
during  the  night  he  watched  it  in  its  restless  sleep.  He 
stood  upon  the  corners  looking  over  the  blackness  of  closed 
tenements,  or,  walking  to  the  arch  of  Brooklyn  Bridge, 
watched  the  swelling  tide  of  water,  the  flickering  of  the 
lights  around  the  city,  the  islands  dotting  here  and  there 
the  dusk. 

Among  the  tramps  that  thronged  the  bridge  he  loitered, 
as  desperate  as  they. 

And  at  this  time  his  mind  and  his  life  were  forming. 
Circumstances  were  busy  making  the  man  ;  the  man  was 
busy  cursing  circumstances.  A  rage  that  years  could  not 
cool  consumed  him.  He  looked  with  blood-shot  eyes  for 


THE   DESCENDANT  31 

the  cause  of  such  a  ghastly  condition — and,  finding  it,  lifted 
against  it  the  full  force  of  his  impassioned  mind.  It  was 
not  the  man,  but  the  system !  It  was  the  system  that  he 
hated  —  the  system  that  suffered  such  things  to  be  —  that 
protected  oppression  in  the  name  of  liberty,  and  injustice  in 
the  name  of  law. 

With  the  altered  direction  of  his  wrath,  the  early  hatred 
for  his  parents  melted  away.  He  had  found  something 
vaster  upon  which  to  vent  his  undisciplined  passion  ;  and 
with  the  larger  hate  the  old  childish  one  seemed  dwarfed 
and  lifeless.  He  saw  in  his  parents  now  but  victims  to  the 
existing  order  —  a  machine  which  ground  out  millions  of 
sentient  beings  and  ground  them  into  nothingness  again. 
He  even  felt  a  half-tenderness  for  his  mother  and  thought 
regretfully  of  the  grave  in  the  overgrown  churchyard,  with 
its  red  clay  soil  bare  of  bloom.  He  wondered  how  he  could 
have  thought  of  her  save  as  wretched  and  bruised  like  him 
self,  reviling  the  system  that  hemmed  her  down.  He  forgot, 
in  his  awakened  sympathy,  that  she  was  but  a  woman  of  the 
fields,  coarse  and  of  great  ignorance,  into  whose  compre 
hension  no  system  could  have  entered. 

On  the  eleventh  evening  he  fainted  in  a  public  square, 
and  a  woman  of  the  street  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap 
and  bathed  his  brow.  He  had  come  to  life  to  see  her 
bending  over  him,  the  street  light  flickering  about  her, 
revealing  the  paint  upon  her  face  and  the  dye  upon  her 
hair. 

But  he  had  not  known.  He  knew  nothing  of  women  and 
little  of  life.  She  seemed  only  kind  and  helpful  to  him,  and 
as  he  staggered  to  his  feet  he  thanked  her. 

"You  are  good,"  he  said.  And  the  woman  had  been 
touched  and  turned  to  look  at  him.  She  saw  his  ignorance, 
which  was  innocence,  and  all  the  charity  buried  beneath  a 
ruined  virtue  responded  to  his  words. 

"  You're  starving,"  she  said.  And  she  slipped  something 
into  his  hand  and  went  her  way,  her  harsh  laughter  softened 


32  THE    DESCENDANT 

for  a  span.  A  man  beside  him  had  called  after  her  a  ribald 
jest,  and  Michael  staggered  up  to  him. 

"  Do  you  know  that  lady  ?"  he  asked. 

And  the  man  laughed — a  coarse,  loud  laugh  that  pained 
his  ears. 

Like  a  flash  Michael  understood,  and  he  shook  and  quiv 
ered,  red  with  humiliation. 

He  turned  away,  stumbling  blindly  to  his  room.  As  one 
dazed  by  a  sudden  blow,  he  stood  staring  writh  hollow  eyes 
at  vacancy.  For  the  first  time  he  knew  himself  for  what  he 
was  —  an  outcast,  and,  with  it  all,  he  felt  blindly  his  own 
impotence — the  quagmire  in  which  he  was  floundering — the 
depths  to  which  his  ambitions  had  sunk. 

And  like  a  prophecy  it  broke  upon  him  that  it  was  a 
depth  from  which  no  man  riseth. 

The  hour  of  his  degradation  was  complete. 

"  To-day  will  end  it,"  he  said,  and  with  calmness  he  went 
out  to  make  his  last  throw — to  take  his  last  chance  at  the 
hands  of  Fate. 

He  bought  an  ounce  of  laudanum  from  a  druggist  at  the 
corner.  "  How  much  do  you  want  ?"  the  man  asked,  and 
Michael  answered : 

"Oh,  enough  to  kill  a  dog."  The  man  looked  at  him 
curiously  as  he  handed  him  the  phial. 

Across  the  street  was  the  sign,  "  Corned-beef  and  onions," 
and,  going  over,  he  spent  his  last  dime  at  the  counter. 

"  I'll  eat  heartily,"  he  thought ;  "  enough  to  live  on  or — • 
to  die  on." 

Leaving  the  restaurant,  he  walked  aimlessly  to  his  left. 
The  crowd  passed  hurriedly  around  him.  A  woman  let  her 
bundle  fall  at  his  feet  and  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up.  After 
wards,  in  the  midst  of  her  stitching,  she  remembered  the 
bitterness  of  his  look. 

A  group  of  bareheaded  children  darted  in  front  of  him, 
their  arms  interlaced.  He  looked  at  them  attentively,  not 
ing  the  red  curls  of  one,  the  plaid  frock  of  another.  He 


THE    DESCENDANT  33 

felt  calmer  than  he  had  felt  for  days.  The  struggle  was 
over,  he  had  thrown  up  the  game,  and,  when  the  end  came, 
could  resign  from  the  competition.  It  mattered  little.  One 
nameless,  homeless  cur  the  less,  that  was  all  —  one  clod 
the  less  to  deter  the  footsteps  of  the  coming  generation, 
nothing  more. 

And  then  he  looked  up  and  his  eye  fell  upon  a  sign  post 
ed  upon  a  building  across  the  way.  He  halted  and  read  it : 

"MEN    WANTED." 

Then  he  re-read  it.  It  was  not  the  first  of  such  signs 
that  he  had  seen.  Others  had  meant  failure,  why  not  this  ? 
Well,  never  matter. 

He  crossed  the  street  and  went  in  at  the  office  door. 
After  waiting  awhile  a  man  came  out  and  spoke  to  him. 
Yes,  he  might  see  the  manager,  he  was  within.  And  in  the 
next  room  he  found  a  jovial  gentleman  with  a  philanthropic 
cast  of  features,  who  put  on  his  spectacles  and  asked  him 
his  name. 

"  Michael  Akershem." 

"  Occupation  ?" 

"None." 

"  No  trade  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  I  have  just  left  the  country." 

"What  part?" 

«  Virginia." 

"Why  did  you  leave?" 

"I  wanted  to  make  my  way." 

The  gentleman  smiled.  He  was  of  a  philanthropic  cast 
of  mind  as  well  as  cast  of  countenance.  Only  that  morn 
ing  he  had  donated  a  check  of  some  thousands  to  be  in 
vested  in  missionaries  and  other  religious  matter  for  the 
development  of  the  Hottentots.  His  charity  was  universal. 
If  it  did  not  begin  at  home,  at  least  it  ended  there,  and  his 
interest  in  his  employes  was  only  second  to  his  interest  in 
the  natives  of  Damaraland. 

3 


34  THE    DESCENDANT 

"Respectable  people?1'  inquired  the  gentleman. 

Michael  winced. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "My  mother  died  when 
I  was  born." 

"  Your  father  ?" 

"  I — I  don't  know  anything  about  him  except — "  and  the 
old  childish  spite  overcame  all  his  new-found  theories, 
"except  that  he  was  a — scoundrel." 

"  Ah  !"  The  gentleman  tapped  his  spectacle-case  reflec 
tively.  "  Bad  blood,"  he  muttered.  "  Bad  blood."  Then 
he  looked  at  the  man  before  him,  strong  of  brow  and  of 
eye. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "we  want  only  skilled  workmen — 
mechanics." 

"  I  can  learn." 

"Yes,  but  unfortunately  we  cannot  undertake  to  teach 
you.  I'm  sorry,  Mr. — Mr.  Akershin — " 

Michael's  hand  had  closed  over  the  phial  in  his  pocket. 
So  this  was  how  it  must  end.  He  had  left  the  room  when 
the  gentleman  called  after  him. 

"  Hello  !"  he  said.  Michael  turned.  "  You're  an  edu 
cated  man,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Why  don't  you  use  your  head  ?  There's  a  new.  paper — 
The  Iconoclast — across  the  way.  It  has  capital  and  it  wants 
brains.  Try  that."  And  Michael  tried.  He  looked  for 
the  sign,  went  into  the  office,  and  hesitated  a  moment  be 
fore  the  city  editor's  door. 

"Come  in  !"  said  a  voice.  The  editor  put  aside  a  piper, 
took  his  feet  from  his  desk,  and  turned  towards  him. 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Give  me  work." 

"Oh,  indeed!" 

"I  was  sent  here,"  said  Michael,  "by  a  man  across  the 
way.  He  said  you  wanted  brains — " 

"Oh,  indeed  !"  said  the  editor.  He  was  a  tall  man  with 
shrewd  eyes.  The  eyes  twinkled. 


THE    DESCENDANT  35 

"  And  you  think  you  can  supply  my  lack  ?"  he  asked. 
"Yes." 

The  editor  looked  up  at  him,  saw  the  purpose  in  his  face, 
caught  the  light  of  the  eyes  between  their  nervous  blinking. 
There  was  power  in  the  man,  and  he  saw  it. 

"We  want  bright  heads,"  he  said,  "very  bright  ones. 
We  want  some  one  to  take  the  existing  order  in  hand  and 
show  it  up.  This  is  a  free-thinking  journal,  you  know.  We 
endeavor  to  correct  abuses — " 

"  Begin  with  the  universe."  said  Michael. 

"And  to  throttle  injustice—" 

"Begin  with  humanity." 

"  In  short,  to  furnish  an  independent,  readable,  and  as 
original  a  paper  as  is  to  be  tound  on  the  market.  As  I  tell 
you,  we  need  bright  heads — " 

Then  he  looked  up  and  caught  the  impassioned  glance. 
"I'll  try  you,"  he  said.  "Walk  into  the  next  room;  you'll 
find  the  foreman.'1 

And  Michael  walked  in. 


BOOK  II 
THE   INDIVIDUAL 


"  Every  man  takes  the  limits  of  his  own  field  of  vision  for  the  limits 
of  the  world."— Schopenhauer. 


CHAPTER    I 

A  MAN  passed  along  South  Fifth  Avenue  and  entered  the 
Chat  Noir.  Finding  the  tables  filled,  he  frowned  impatient 
ly  and  fell  back  against  the  door.  Then,  as  a  waiter  passed, 
with  a  tray  in  his  hand,  he  spoke.  "  Put  me  anywhere,"  he 
said;  "I'm  in  a  hurry." 

The  waiter  looked  up,  recognized  him,  and  nodded. 
"Good-evening,  sir,"  he  said.  "In  a  moment."  He  led 
him  down  the  room  to  a  platform  at  the  rear  end,  and  as 
cending  the  steps  gave  him  a  seat  at  one  of  the  tables. 

As  the  man  sat  down  several  persons  turned  to  look  at 
him.  He  was  lithe  and  squarely  built,  with  a  maze  of 
rough,  dark  hair,  a  prominent  brow,  and  nervous  eyes. 

"  There  are  brains  for  you,"  said  an  artist  in  a  threadbare 
coat  to  his  companion.  "Look  at  his  brow.  That  man 
has  the  head  of  a  genius." 

"  And  the  hair  as  well,"  answered  his  companion,  who 
was  fair  and  florid.  "  On  the  principle  that  '  a  genius  his 
hair  never  cpmbs.'  Is  that  the  fact  from  which  you  gen 
eralize  ?" 

"Pish!"  retorted  the  other.  "Read  his  leaders  and 
you'll  see.  He  has  created  an  epoch  in  journalism.  Why, 
the  man  has  the  power  of  an  Ibsen  and  the  audacity  as 
well.  He  leaves  nothing  unassailed.  He  has  a  genius  for 
destroying.  If  he  has  a  sentiment,  one  needs  a  microscope 
to  find  it.  His  lectures  on  Social  Lies,  you  know,  fairly  set 
society  ablaze.  By  Jove,  it's  genius,  and,  what's  better,  it 
pays,  which,  I  happen  to  know,  all  genius  doesn't  do.  I'd 
change  places  with  him  to-night,  hair  and  all,  damn  me  if 
I  wouldn't!  It's  better  than  painting  landscapes  at  ten  dol 
lars  a  gross  and  no  demand." 


40  THE   DESCENDANT 

" Waiter !"  his  companion  was  saying,  "chops  for  one! 
Mind  you,  I  didn't  say  one  chop,  I  said  chops  for  one.  Be 
quick,  please.  Oh,  your  man !  Yes,  as  you  say,  painting 
doesn't  pay.  I've  *  A  Pair  of  Loves '  at  my  studio  for  which 
I  asked  five  hundred  a  year  ago,  and,  by  Jove,  I'd  knock  it 
off  for  fifty  to-night  if  I  got  the  chance.  The  age  of  art  has 
gone  by,  the  age  of  action  has  commenced." 

"  It's  an  age  of  small  things,"  admitted  the  first,  sadly. 
He  was  gazing  pensively  at  the  frieze  of  black  cats  around 
the  ceiling.  "  I'm  profoundly  convinced  that  it  is  an  age  of 
small  things.  From  the  age  of  dollars  I  have  passed  to  the 
age  of  cents,  from  the  age  of  chicken  to  the  age  of  chops — " 

"Be  warned  by  a  poor  devil  and  stop  before  you  arrive  at 
the  singular,"  said  the  other.  "  In  me  behold  one  who  has 
reached  an  age  of  chop— or,  to  be  exact,  an  age  of  quarter 
ounce  mutton,  two  ounce  bone —  The  devil !  Your  man's 
mad !" 

The  man  in  question  had  turned  sharply  to  speak  to 
some  one  who  was  leaning  over  his  chair.  His  face  had 
paled  and  a  deep  vein  across  his  forehead  was  swollen  and 
livid. 

"  And,  if  I  did  write  it,"  he  demanded,  "  does  it  concern 
you,  sir  ?" 

"  Only  in  this,"  said  the  other,  soothingly,  "  that  I  can't 
understand  how  a  man  of  your  judgment  can  wilfully  give 
expression  to  such  a — a  string— of  falsehoods." 

"  Ah,  is  that  all  ?"  The  man  turned  slowly  away,  filling 
his  glass  with  white  wine.  "  Really,  I  can't  be  made 
responsible  for  your  lack  of  understanding,"  he  said. 
"  Waiter  !  oysters,  please." 

He  went  quietly  on  with  his  dinner.  A  girl  across  the 
room  was  smiling  at  him  between  the  spoonfuls  of  her  soup, 
but  he  did  not  notice.  He  ate  his  oysters  slowly,  with  de 
liberation,  his  gaze  abstracted,  one  hand  playing  nervously 
with  the  crackers  beside  his  plate.  Once  he  paused  to 
stroke  the  black  cat  that  rubbed  against  his  knee. 

The  threadbare  artist  and  his  companion  had  gone  out. 


THE   DESCENDANT  41 

A  gentleman  in  a  gray  shooting- jacket  had  taken  their 
places,  accompanied  by  a  lady  with  beautiful  glistening  hair. 
She  moved  with  a  slow  Delsartean  action,  as  actresses  do 
before  they  have  become  artists. 

"  Yes,  it  has  been  a  trying  day,"  said  the  lady,  speaking 
with  a  strong  Southern  accent.  "I  did  not  dream  that  an 
actress's  life  could  be  such  drudgery.  And  the  hardest  les 
son  one  has  to  learn,  harder  than  all  the  lines,  is  how  to  be 
an  actress  and  a  lady,  too.  Really,  it  takes  all  one's  time. 
And  one  is  thrown  with  such  common  people,  too ;  it  is  so 
—so—" 

"  So  humiliating,"  suggested  the  gentleman. 

"Yes,  it  is  quite  humiliating.  And  that  dreadful  man 
ager  !  Why,  I  saw  him,  with  my  own  eyes,  kiss  a  chorus 
girl  behind  the  scenes  last  night.  If  I  had  dreamed  of  such 
outrageous  things,  I'm  sure  I  should  never  have  left  home. 
I  mightn't  have  been  famous,  but  I  should,  at  least,  have 
been  respectable — and  I  am  getting  to  believe  that  the  two 
are  opposed.  No  !  no  wine,  thank  you  !" 

"  So  you  regret  your  step  ?" 

"  Well,  hardly  that,  but  J  regret  that  I  don't  regret  it." 
The  lady  sighed,  putting  up  her  hand  to  smooth  her  beau 
tiful  hair.  Presently  her  gaze  wandered  over  the  room  and 
she  spoke  more  rapidly,  her  eyes  growing  bright  and  wide. 
"Why,"  she  said,  "isn't  that  the  editor  of  The  Iconoclast? 
There — over  there  in  the  corner  ?" 

The  gentleman  followed  the  direction  of  her  glance.  "  So 
it  is,"  he  said.  "  Akershem,  you  know,  created  quite  a  stir, 
hasn't  he  ?" 

"  Indeed,  yes,"  assented  the  lady,  drawing  on  her  long 
gloves.  "  But  don't  you  think  him  rather  wicked  ?  Think 
of  the  things  he  has  said  about  society  and  religion  and 
marriage." 

"  Brilliant  fellow,  though,"  suggested  the  gentleman. 

"  Brilliant  ?  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  I  haven't  read  his 
articles.  I  wouldn't  for  anything.  I  fear  he's  one  of  the 
powers  for  evil," 


42  THE   DESCENDANT 

The  man  had  unbuttoned  his  coat  and  his  loose  tennis 
blouse,  open  at  the  throat,  was  visible.  The  tables  were 
crowded  now.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  and  about  the 
door  a  line  had  formed  waiting  for  vacated  seats.  Near  the 
door  a  group  of  merry  young  fellows  were  gathered  about  a 
table.  They  were  laughing  and  passing  wine  with  boyish 
good  humor. 

"  Here's  to  to-morrow,"  said  one,  "and  the  evil  it  doesn't 
bring." 

"  Here's  to  the  job  it  does  brine:,"  added  another. 

"  How  many  goes  to-day,  Bob  ?''  asked  a  third. 

"  Eight  in  all.  Began  with  The  Herald  and  ended  with — 
By  Jove  !  I've  forgotten  the  name." 

"  There's  Debbins  over  there,"  said  one.  "  He's  on  The 
World,  they  say." 

"And  there's  Akershem  of  The  Iconoclast — there's  your 
chance.  Go  it,  Bob." 

"And  get  my  nose  bitten  off  for  my  pains.  He's  about 
as  amiable  as  the  devil's  wife  on  a  wash  day." 

"  I  heard  a  jolly  story  about  him  the  other  day,"  said  a 
young  fellow  with  a  snub-nose.  "Symonds  went  to  him 
for  work.  You  know  Symonds,  the  fellow  with  the  grand 
father  who  did  something  of  some  sort.  Well,  Symonds 
was  hauling  out  his  recommendations.  '  I'm  of  first-rate 
people,  sir,'  he  said.  *  My  grandfather  was — '  and  Akers 
hem  broke  in  with:  'What  in  thunder  have  I  to  do  with 
your  grandfather  ?  He  may  have  been  the  devil,  for  aught 
I  care.  I  don't  want  to  adopt  you,'  and  he  didn't  give  him 
the  job,  either.  *  I've  no  doubt  many  papers  would  be  glad 
to  get  you,  Mr.  Symonds,'  he  said,  *  on  your  grandfather's 
account,'  and  he  ushered  him  out." 

"He  's  a  temper  of  his  own,"  said  the  first  one,  "and  a 
head,  too  ;  but  that  Billy  Summers  on  his  staff  worships  the 
ground  he  walks  on.  He  says  Akershem  raised  him  from 
the  gutter  to  glory." 

And  Akershem  went  quietly  on  with  his  dinner,  his  gaze 
abstracted,  his  square,  beardless  face  bent  over  his  plate. 


THE    DESCENDANT  43 

He  was  young,  not  more  than  six-and-twenty.  He  was  old, 
for  he  had  lived  much  during  those  six-and-twenty  years. 

Suddenly  he  paused,  looked  up,  and  bowed  in  response 
to  a  gentleman  who  had  seated  himself  across  from  him. 
He  was  a  stout  man  of  some  forty  odd  years,  with  thin,  fair 
hair  and  clear-cut  features.  His  eyes  rested  upon  Michael 
and  their  pupils  contracted  in  puzzled  scrutiny.  They  were 
humorous  eyes,  light  and  clear  of  vision.  "  I  beg  your  par 
don,"  he  began,  then  hesitated.  "  Are  you  Mr.  Michael 
Akershem  of  The  Iconoclast  V* 

"  I  am."  There  was  an  aggressive  defiance  in  Aker- 
shem's  retort. 

"And  I  am  Semple — Hedley  Semple — you  have  heard 
of  me?" 

"  Heard  of  you  !"  A  smile  passed  over  his  face  like 
gleams  of  sunshine  across  a  cloud.  "  Heard  of  you  ?  Why, 
I've  heard  you  a  dozen  times,  but  I  thought  you  were  lect 
uring  abroad." 

"So  I  was;  but  'he  who  fights  and  runs  away,'  you 
know.  I  talked  the  German  public  mad  in  a  month,  the 
English  in  a  week,  and  the  French  in  exactly  two  hours  and 
forty  minutes.  The  American  public,  being  a  gigantic 
mongrel,  I  expect  to  have  it  hooting  at  my  heels  before  the 
month's  up.  But  you're  doing  a  great  reform  work.  Read 
your  leaders  this  morning.  So  marriage  is  not  a  failure,  but 
a  fake,  is  it?  Oh,  but  I  wished  for  you  across  the  water! 
I'd  a  poor  chance  of  fight  sometimes,  but  on  social  reform 
I  got  the  people,  the  aristocracy  sitting  by  and  kicking  its 
heels." 

Michael  laughed.  "  That's  all  it  is  good  for,"  he  said. 
"  An  aristocrat  is  a  man  who  sits  down  to  think  about  what 
his  grandfather  has  done  while  other  men  are  doing  some 
thing  themselves." 

"  Oh,  but  it's  a  great  work,"  said  Semple.  "  It  infuses  an 
interest  into  a  man.  One  need  never  fear  ennui  when  one 
has  a  purpose  to  serve.  A  man  who  hasn't  a  cause  to  fight 
for  should  invent  one," 


44  THE   DESCENDANT 

"  For  pleasure  ?"  asked  Michael,  with  a  laugh. 

"Yes,  for  pleasure.  I  tell  you  I  haven't  been  bored  a 
day  since  I  took  up  reform."  Then  he  seemed  to  gather 
all  his  enthusiasm,  bringing  it  to  a  focus.  It  was  as  if  he 
lashed  himself  into  fanaticism  for  the  pleasure  of  it.  "We 
shall  accomplish  a  great  work,"  he  said.  "  Watch  the  prog 
ress.  Society  shall  shiver,  shall  totter,  shall  come  down 
with  a  crash.  We  will  erect  a  new  one  upon  the  ashes  of 
the  old.  We  will  make  freedom  the  watchword  and  equality 
the  law.  Liberte 7  Egalite !  Fraternite !  We  shall  win  a 
great  victory.  Our  children  and  our  children's  children 
shall  live  to  see  the  triumph  of  our  cause,  and,  in  the  midst 
of  their  prosperity,  shall  rise  up  and  call  us  blessed." 

Michael  was  listening,  his  face  flushed,  all  traces  of  bit 
terness  gone.  His  lips  were  apart,  his  head  thrown  back  in 
the  old  childish  fashion.  His  breath  came  quickly ;  the 
glare  of  his  nervous  eyes  was  almost  blinding.  "We  will 
do  it,"  he  said.  "  Society  is  a  fetich,  upon  whose  altar  hu 
man  beings  are  sacrificed.  We  will  tear  it  down." 

"  In  time,"  said  the  other.  "  Give  us  time.  We  will 
prove  that  liberty — glorious  liberty — is  the  only  birthright 
worth  possessing,  and  that  it  is  the  equal  birthright  of  all. 
Sweep  away  poverty  and  you  have  swept  away  crime. 
Make  men  happy  and  you  make  them  holy.  Oh,  humanity 
will  become  a  fine  thing  yet — no  more  class  robbery,  no 
more  drudgery  of  women  and  children — no  more  laws  bind 
ing  two  human  beings  together  for  all  time — no  more  room 
for  immorality  and  injustice.  A  man  shall  have  equal  op 
portunity  as  the  son  of  a  millionaire  or  a  mechanic — "  He 
stopped  suddenly,  the  enthusiasm  dying  from  his  fair,  flushed 
face,  the  strained  fanaticism  in  the  eyes  giving  place  to  the 
habitual  gleam  of  good-humor.  "  But,  enough  of  this,"  he 
said  ;  "  tell  me  about  yourself.  How  long  have  you  been 
in  the  editor's  chair?" 

"  Two  years." 

"And  with  the  paper  seven.  Ah,  you've  done  well. 
You're  you^g  yet,  however,  and  you  may  temper  down. 


THE   DESCENDANT  45 

Half  the  conservatives  of  to-day  were  reformers  in  their 
youth.  You  may  change." 

"  Never !"  said  Michael,  and  he  said  it  hotly,  fixing  upon 
the  other  his  blinking  eyes. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Semple,  "  time  will  show.  But  how's 
your  staff?  A  good  one,  I  suppose.  And  Driscoll,  the 
former  editor  ;  where's  he  ?" 

Akershem's  face  brightened.  "  He  gave  it  up,"  he  an 
swered.  "  It  was  a  great  loss.  His  health  gave  out  and  he 
grew  conservative.  He  said  the  profession  of  sensational 
ism  wrecked  his  nerves.  He  got  tired  of  pie  and  civiliza 
tion.  One,  he  said,  had  given  him  dyspepsia,  the  other 
blue  devils.  So  he  went  to  try  a  state  of  simple  nature  in 
Florida,  on  an  orange  farm.  I  haven't  heard  from  him 
lately.  I  guess  the  freeze  down  there  brought  him  to  his 
senses." 

"He  was  a  fine  fellow— that  man." 

"  Fine !  He  was  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  worth  bow 
ing  to." 

Semple  laughed  good-naturedly.  "  Cynicism  is  a  sure 
sign  of  youth,"  he  said. 

"  Not  cynicism,"  returned  IHichael.  "  I've  passed  that. 
"  Life  is  like  an  apple.  It  has  three  stages,  first,  the  rind, 
which  is  sour — cynicism ;  next,  the  pulp,  which  is  sweet — 
optimism ;  and  thirdly,  the  core,  which  is  rotten  —  pessi 
mism.  Well  I've  tried  the  first.  I  skipped  the  second,  and 
I'm  pretty  well  into  the  third." 

The  room  was  less  crowded.  Some  of  the  tables  were 
vacant.  At  the  one  across  from  them  a  girl  was  sitting 
alone.  She  wore  a  loose  artist's  blouse  of  black  cloth  with 
a  rolling  collar  of  white  and  a  small  cap  of  some  rough 
material.  In  her  hand  she  held  a  drawing-block  and  a 
pencil. 

"  There's  a  woman  of  the  time,"  said  Semple,  suddenly, 
nodding  his  head  in  her  direction.  "As  independent  a 
young  person  as  is  to  be  found  in  New  York — Miss  Gavin  ; 
do  you  know  her  ?" 


46  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  No  !  I  don't  like  women." 

"  She  is  a  type." 

"  I  detest  types  of  women.  I  never  saw  but  one,  and 
that  was  the  fool  type." 

"  Fie !  shame  on  you  !  Well,  she's  a  genius,  they  say. 
Had  some  fine  things  at  the  Oil  Exhibition  last  spring. 
Took  the  medal.  She  has  made  a  god  of  her  art,  I'm  told. 
An  interesting  woman  and  a  strange  one." 

"A  strange  one  indeed."  Michael  had  turned  and  was 
looking  across  at  her.  She  was  of  medium  height,  slight, 
but  with  broad,  straight  shoulders  and  an  independent,  half- 
audacious  carriage  of  the  head.  The  cap  had  slipped  to 
one  side,  showing  the  backward  wave  of  the  dark  hair  that 
was  coiled  low  on  the  nape  of  the  neck,  and  giving  her  a 
slightly  defiant  appearance.  Her  face  was  oval  and  some 
what  sallow,  with  a  firm  chin,  and  a  nose  squarely  cut  at 
the  tip.  Her  eyes  were  gray,  deeply  set  in  the  sockets,  and 
with  a  black  shadow  thrown  across  them  by  the  lashes — 
but  gray  most  decidedly — a  clear,  deep  gray  like  the  moun 
tains  when  a  storm  is  near.  They  were  eyes  that  suggested 
the  possibility  of  a  smile.  When  grave,  her  face  was  set 
and  strongly  marked,  without  a  trace  of  color  except  the 
thin  line  of  the  lips,  and  almost  overshadowed  by  the 
straight  black  eyebrows. 

She  was  feeding  the  cat  with  bits  of  partridge  from  her 
plate,  stroking  its  head  with  one  large,  ungloved  hand. 

"A  strange  woman,  indeed,"  Michael  had  said. 

"  I'll  wager  she'll  make  a  success  of  whatever  she  under 
takes,"  said  Semple.  "  If  art,  so  much  the  better  ;  if  love, 
so  much  the  worse."  Then  he  started.  "By  Jove,"  he 
said,  "  she's  sketching  you.  It  can't  be  me —  No !  it's 
you." 

The  girl  had  rested  her  block  upon  the  table,  and  was 
busily  applying  her  pencil  to  it,  her  gaze  passing  from  the 
paper  to  Michael  and  back  to  the  paper  again. 

"  Cool !"  he  muttered,  "  but  she's  welcome  to  it.  May  it 
do  her  more  good  than  it's  done  me." 


THE    DESCENDANT  47 

Sample  rose.  "  It's  a  pity  to  disappoint  the  young  wom 
an,"  he  said,  "  but  wounded  vanity  pricks,  and,  since  she's 
selected  you,  I'm  off.  I've  an  engagement  in  twenty  min 
utes.  I'll  look  in  at  the  office  to-morrow.  By-the-bye,  I 
want  you  to  meet  my  wife." 

"  Your  wife  ?"  said  Michael.  He  recoiled  as  though  some 
one  had  struck  him  between  the  eyes.  He  felt  dazed. 
"Your  wife?"  he  repeated,  "why,  I — I  thought  you — you 
were  an  opponent  of  marriage." 

"  Oh  !  that's  different.  I  am  of  marriage— of  marriage 
in  general,  you  know.  But  my  wife — she's  such  a  fine  wom 
an — such  a  deuced  fine  woman.  You  must  meet  her.  Good 
bye." 

He  had  gone,  and  Michael  pushed  his  glass  aside  and 
rose.  He  felt  a  crushing  sense  of  disappointment.  Here 
was  a  man  who  held  publicly  the  most  advanced  views  of 
the  day,  and  who  privately —  Was  it  lack  of  principle  or 
lack  of  policy  ? 

Then  his  gaze  fell  on  the  girl  across  from  him,  and  he 
went  boldly  over  to  where  she  sat,  his  brilliant  glance  fix 
ing  her  like  magnetism. 

"  You  are  sketching  me,"  he  said. 

The  girl  looked  up  and  frowned.  Then  the  corners  of 
her  mouth  went  up,  the  lines  about  her  eyes  dimpled,  and 
her  straight  brows  arched.  She  was  provokingly  mirthful. 
"A  study  if  you  please,"  she  said,  "for  John  the  Baptist — 
as  he  left  the  wilderness,  of  course."  The  promise  of  her 
smile  was  fulfilled.  Then  her  lips  fell  and  grew  prim,  a 
gray  cloud  hid  the  stars  in  her  eyes,  the  dimples  from  the 
corners  fled.  She  frowned. 

Michael  looked  gravely  down  upon  her.  He  was  al 
ways  grave.  There  was  a  certain  interest  in  watching  the 
changes  in  her  mobile  face,  the  quick  play  of  thought 
across  her  sensitive  features.  He  wanted  to  make  her 
angry  and  see  the  flash  come  out  in  her  eyes.  There  was 
a  delicious  danger  in  playing  with  the  fire  of  her  glance. 
He  desired  and  feared  to  meet  its  level  brilliance. 


43  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  You  might  have  asked  my  permission,"  he  said ;  "  but 
since  you  didn't,  I'll  grant  it  anyway.  Turn  about  is  fair 
play.  I'll  walk  home  with  you."  Then  he  drew  slightly 
back  and  looked  at  her,  waiting  with  a  cynical  amusement 
to  see  the  effect  of  his  words. 

The  girl  rose  quietly,  gathered  up  her  wraps,  found  her 
gloves,  and  paused  to  turn  the  fingers  right  side  out.  She 
picked  up  her  drawing-block  from 'the  table.  Very  deliber 
ately  she  tore  off  the  outer  leaf,  and,  tearing  it  in  half,  let  it 
fall  lightly  to  the  floor.  Then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
face.  The  corners  of  her  lips  curved  upward  in  their  deli 
cious  way,  showing  all  the  sharp,  white  teeth.  With  a  pro 
voking  air  of  bravado  she  passed  him,  looking  back  over 
her  shoulder  to  throw  a  humorous  glance. 

"  St.  John  was  hardly  worth  it,"  she  said.  "  I'm  as  much 
as  I  can  look  after,  thank  you,"  and  she  passed  away  from 
him  and  out  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER   II 

AND  this  was  Michael  Akershem  ! 

As  he  passed  along  under  the  glimmer  of  the  electric 
light,  he  almost  laughed  to  himself  at  the  thought— laughed 
impersonally  as  a  stranger  might  have  done. 

This  was  Michael  Akershem. 

This  the  bare-footed  child  in  Virginia,  chasing  the  pigs 
from  the  cornfield,  submitting  to  the  harsh  railings  of  the 
farmer's  wife,  choking  with  suppressed  rage  and  gnawing 
bitterness.  This  the  lad  growing  up  under  the  minister's 
eye,  pried  after  by  the  village  women,  badgered  by  the  vil 
lage  boys.  This  the  man  who  walked  these  same  streets 
seven  years  ago,  hungry,  sore,  and  homeless,  asking  only  the 
hire  of  a  common  laborer,  ready  to  toil  in  the  shops  or  in 
the  foundery,  passionate,  alert,  and  spurred  onward  by  the 
lash  of  unsatisfied  ambition. 

And  to-day  this  was  Michael  Akershem.  Strong,  fear 
less,  and  fired  by  an  unfaltering  will.  His  hand  against 
every  man  still,  and  every  man's  hand  against  him,  but  the 
single  hand — no  mere  wavering  fist  of  a  farmer's  hireling — 
but  a  hand,  powerful  and  heavy  of  grasp,  mighty  and  sure 
to  wound.  The  years  of  labor  had  set  their  mark  upon 
him,  had  stamped  the  .lines  of  self  -  sufficiency  upon  his 
brow,  as  they  had  graven  the  expression  of  habitual  bitter 
ness  about  his  mouth.  He  owed  the  world  nothing.  His 
success  he  had  earned  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  with  a 
brain  which  had  ached  like  a  madman's  and  yet  toiled  on. 
The  bread  which  he  ate  was  the  bread  of  independence,  the 
bread  of  his  own  plodding  youth,  the  bread  which  separated 
him  from  all  claim  from  his  fellows.  The  world  and  he 
were  at  odds.  He  had  gained  nothing  from  it  that  it  had 


50  THE    DESCENDANT 

not  begrudged  him,  and  had  he  his  will  it  should  gain  noth 
ing  from  him  until  it  gained  his  dust  to  enrich  the  earth. 

As  for  men  and  women,  they  were  but  moving  atoms — 
burlesques  of  what  might  have  been  had  Nature  been  less 
of  a  niggard.  For  him  they  had  only  distrust ;  for  them 
he  had  only  jeers.  They  could  distrust ;  well,  he  could  af 
ford  to  despise.  They  could  upbraid;  well,  he  could  sneer. 
It  was  all  one  to  him ;  he  had  known  nothing  else  from  his 
birth,  and  he  expected  to  know  nothing  else  until  his  death. 
The  sins  of  men  must  have  scapegoats.  He  was  a  scape 
goat  ;  but  he  could  rebel,  and  rebel  he  did. 

The  force  of  his  wrath  he  spent  upon  the  one  vulnerable 
point.  His  genius  for  invective  was  expended  where  its 
effects  were  most  sweeping.  He  could  not  reach  one  man, 
thousands  he  could.  He  could  not  assail  the  individual, 
the  system  he  could. 

Like  a  torrent  he  bore  down  upon  the  objects  of  his  re 
sentment.  The  genius  which  might  have  created  was  ex 
erted  to  destroy.  The  brilliancy  which  might  have  won 
love  was  given  in  hate.  The  strength  which  might  have 
ennobled  could  only  embitter.  He  had  suffered,  and 
against  the  things  whereby  he  had  suffered  his  voice  was 
lifted.  Had  his  life  been  otherwise,  the  strength  might 
have  been  welded  to  gentleness,  the  courage  to  humanity. 
But  otherwise  it  had  not  been.  Circumstances  are  mighty 
and  man  is  weak.  The  wheel  of  the  potter  grinds  on  and 
the  clay  is  moulded  into  symmetry  or  distorted  by  mishap. 
If  it  is  misshapen  by  the  mishap  and  regains  not  its  rounded 
form,  is  it  the  fault  of  the  potter  or  of  the  clay? 

And  Michael  rallied.  Brilliant,  bitter,  hated  and  hating, 
stirred  by  a  restless,  untempered  energy  which  sought  cease 
lessly  its  outlet.  With  swift,  fire- tinctured  blood  and  a 
nature  never  at  peace,  he  carried  on  his  impotent  revolt. 

He  walked  briskly  along  with  swinging  strides,  passing 
under  the  shifting  shadows  cast  by  the  electric  light.  He 
was  thinking,  his  fevered,  over-active  brain  bearing  down 
upon  the  past  and  dissecting  it  as  with  a  microscope.  Sort- 


THE    DESCENDANT  51 

ing  the  years,  one  by  one,  and  throwing  some  aside  to  a 
mental  rubbish  heap,  and  labelling  some  and  laying  them 
away,  and  fastening  upon  some  his  keen  regard  as  for  the 
moment's  use. 

With  all  the  salient  irregularity  of  face  and  figure,  it  was 
more  as  a  personality  that  he  impressed  one  than  as  a  per 
son  ;  more  as  a  mind  than  as  a  man  ;  more  as  a  will  than 
as  a  body.  A  subtle,  illusive,  yet  trenchant  quality  which 
enforced  submission  or  inspired  resistance.  The  friction  of 
an  abnormal  nature  against  normal  ones.  And  in  the  fric 
tion  the  emphasis  of  his  personality  was  made  manifest ; 
the  conscious  predominance  of  the  psychical  existence. 
Reaching  the  office,  he  let  himself  in  with  a  latch-key,  light 
ed  the  lamp,  and  began  his  night's  work.  He  was  prepar 
ing  the  sheets  for  the  morning  press. 

He  worked  steadily  with  that  unwearied,  absorbed  appli 
cation  which  is  the  surest  warrant  of  success.  Occasionally 
he  would  glance  up,  his  brilliant  gaze  abstracted,  his  brow 
rufHed.  Then  the  thought  would  be  run  down  and  captured 
and  he  would  work  on  with  his  restless  pen.  At  two  o'clock 
he  rose,  put  out  the  lamp,  let  himself  out,  and  went  home. 

For  seven  years  he  had  done  such  work. 

The  next  day  while  Akershem  worked  at  his  desk  a  rap 
sounded  at  the  office  door.  He  glanced  up  sharply.  The 
door  was  labelled  "private,"  and  was  supposed  to  be  so. 
He  detested  interruptions. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  curtly. 

The  door  swung  open  and  a  man  entered,  a  tall  man  with 
heavy  brows  and  delightful  eyes — light,  shrewd,  quick-sight 
ed  eyes,  with  twinkles  in  their  pupils. 

Like  a  flash  Michael  was  upon  him. 

"  Why,  Driscoll,  old  man,  it's  too  good  to  be  true  !  When 
did  you  come  ?  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  Are  you  back 
for  good  ?" 

"  Hold  on,  Shem — you  don't  mind,  Shem,  do  you? — it's  so 
convenient — wait  a  minute  and  I'll  take  you  down  in  order. 
First,  when  did  I  come  ?  Answer,  exactly  nineteen  and 


52  THE    DESCENDANT 

one-half  minutes  ago  by  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad.  Sec 
ondly,  where  did  I  come  from  ?  Answer,  from  a  place 
known  to  the  natives  as  the  Sunny  South — South  literally, 
Sunny  by  courtesy.  Thirdly,  am  I  back  for  good?  An 
swer,  dubious,  judging  from  the  state  of  my  pocketbook ;  I 
fear  I'm  back  for  bad." 

He  had  taken  Michael's  vacated  seat,  swinging  his  feet 
upon  the  desk  with  a  leisurely  action.  As  he  did  so  he  dis 
placed  the  papers  upon  which  Akershem  had  been  working. 

"  Pick  them  up,  Shem,"  he  said,  "  there's  a  good  fellow. 
You  haven't  been  to  Florida  and  gotten  rheumatism.  This 
is  a  confounded  habit  of  mine,  I  know,  but  it's  inherited.  I 
got  it  from  my  father,  who  contracted  it  in  South  America 
when  he  lived  in  a  tent  with  some  centipedes.  But  go  on, 
my  young  fanatic.  What  have  you  been  doing?  What,  I 
mean,  besides  coveting  your  neighbor's  goods  ?  Aren't  you 
tired  of  using  society  as  a  football  ?  Why  don't  you  give 
it  up  ?  Get  out  of  the  profession  of  sensationalism,  or  turn 
conservative.  In  these  degenerate  days  it's  the  only  party 
in  which  a  man  doesn't  get  his  brains  jammed  into  jelly 
with  all  the  rest !  We'll  bring  out  a  respectable  paper  of 
some  kind,  with  domestic  advice  to  dutiful  wives  and  a  col 
umn  for  correspondents  and  recipes  for  plum-pudding  and 
gooseberry  jam.  I'll  even  offer  to  take  the  correspondence 
off  your  hands  ;  think  of  that—" 

"  But,  Driscoll,  what  about  the  orange  farm  ?" 

"  My  dear  Shem,  I  can  tell  you  a  lot  about  the  farm. 
Walked  that  over  in  two  days,  but  I  know  deuced  little 
about  the  oranges.  There  was  a  rumor  up  here  to  the 
effect  that  there  was  a  grove  on  the  place,  but  I  didn't  see 
it,  though  I  examined  every  shrub  through  field-glasses. 

"  Well,  a  freeze  came  and  it  took  my  neighbors'  oranges, 
and,  in  default  of  oranges,  it  took  me.  I  contracted  rheu 
matism,  so  here  I  am.  By  Jove,  I  used  to  get  bored  down 
there.  There  was  no  fishing,  and  the  only  sport  I  had  was 
hunting  in  the  pond  for  tadpoles,  chasing  them  under  a 
rotten  log  and  catching  them  by  the  tails.  There  was  a 


THE    DESCENDANT  53 

small  darky  who  used  to  join  me.  We  got  sixty-nine  one 
day,  and  didn't  let  one  get  away.  Then  I  read  your  dia 
tribes  and  saw  that  you  needed  the  check  rein,  so  I  came 
back.  My  dear  Shem,  you  are  making  the  mistake  of  be 
ing  in  earnest.  Nobody  should  be  in  earnest,  it  is  bad 
form.  Theories  are  meant  for  playthings  j  if  you  use  them 
as  weapons,  they  go  to  pieces  and  cut  you." 

Akershem  laughed. 

"That's  a  fact,  Shem;  the  only  successful  reformer  is 
the  one  who  never  attempts  to  put  his  reforms  into  prac 
tice.  They're  the  men  the  world  goes  mad  over  while  it 
stones  their  tools." 

"  I  was  born  to  be  stoned." 

"  Nonsense  !  don't  give  Fate  a  chance  to  rile  you.  Provi 
dence  has  to  be  hoodwinked.  If  you  want  to  get  anything 
in  this  world,  turn  to  wanting  something  else,  and  ten 
chances  to  one  the  first  will  come  —  only  you  won't 
want  it." 

"  Any  more  moralizing  at  my  expense  ?" 

"  Lots.  You  need  it.  You  have  gone  and  made  society 
a  bugbear,  and  now  you're  trying  to  bully  it.  Let  it  alone. 
People  aren't  half  as  big  fools  as  they  look,  and,  anyway, 
it's  no  concern  of  yours.  If  men  choose  to  erect  idols  in 
the  market-place,  why  should  you  trouble  to  tear  them 
down?  A  sensible  man  doesn't  do  that — a  sensible  man 
is  wild,  wicked,  stupid,  if  you  will,  but  he  is  never  in  earnest. 
He  knows  that  if  society  is  rotten  he  can't  purify  it  by 
poking  and  prying,  but  will  only  succeed  in  soiling  his 
hands  in  the  filth.  Let  the  world  alone  and  it'll  let  you 
alone." 

"  But  it  hasn't  let  me  alone  and  I  won't  let  it.  I'll  pro 
test  against  it  with  my  dying  breath.  I  was  talking  to 
Semple  last  night — " 

"  Semple  !"  said  Driscoll,  "  Hedley  Semple  !  He's  a  man 
who  is  playing  with  edged  tools.  I  tell  you  what  is  play  to 
him  is  death  to  you.  He  talks  his  views,  but  you  live 
yours.  That's  wrong.  Theories  have  nothing  to  do  with 


54 


THE    DESCENDANT 


life ;  they  are  to  be  talked  about,  that's  all.     Make  it  play, 
Shem,  don't — " 

Then  he  broke  off  with  a  laugh. 

"  I'm  getting  in  earnest  myself,"  he  said,  "  which  I  don't 
do  on  principle.  My  state  of  simple  nature,  you  see,  has 
cultivated  in  me  the  simplicity  of  primitive  man.  It  is  the 
only  life  worth  leading,  after  all.  This  vast  machine  of 
nervous  energy  called  civilization  is  demoralizing.  It  keeps 
the  brain  at  fever  heat  and  produces  vertigo.  It  destroys 
individuality.  Quit  it,  my  dear  Shem ;  you  need  rest. 
Leave  politics,  the  tariff,  the  currency,  and  all  the  other 
fruits  of  perdition  alone.  The  currency  is  the  devil's  own 
institution  for  making  maniacs  of  men.  I  recognize  his 
stamp." 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,  Driscoll.     I  know  what  I'm  doing." 

"  The  deuce  you  do  !  I  never  saw  a  reformer  who  did. 
They  might  be  classified  as  a  distinct  species  having  eyes 
in  the  back  of  their  heads." 

"  You've  managed  to  readjust  yours,  I  see." 

"  Ah,  well,  a  young  sinner  makes  an  old  Solomon.  There 
is  nothing  so  profitable  to  a  philosopher  as  the  sins  of  his 
youth." 

"  Or  so  confoundedly  pedantic  as  the  repentance  of  his 
age." 

"  Quit  it,  Shem  !  Run  down  to  Florida  for  a  bit.  Six 
weeks  spent  with  that  delightfully  uncivilized  small  darky 
will  raise  your  respect  for  humanity  exactly  twenty  degrees. 
It  did  for  me.  I  assure  you,  when  I  left  here  I  was  in 
clined  to  look  upon  mankind  as  an  unmitigated  failure. 
After  my  first  introduction  to  him  I  began  to  think  that  it 
wasn't  such  a  bad  case,  after  all.  And  when  I  saw  him 
sitting  in  a  watermelon  patch,  eating  out  of  the  rind  quite 
like  the  natural  man,  I  felt  that,  take  the  high  pressure  of 
civilization  away,  humanity  might  be  a  first-rate  thing. 
Then  he  taught  me  to  fish  for  tadpoles,  and,  by  Jove- 
He  rose  suddenly  and  lounged  over  to  the  window.  "  It 
makes  me  homesick,"  he  said,  "  such  a  bully  day  for  the 


THE    DESCENDANT  55 

sport,  too.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  hear  that  he'd 
caught  the  can  full."  Then  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  was 
making  off.  "  Come  out  with  me,  Shem.  I've  half  prom 
ised  to  look  in  at  the  water-color  exhibition.  Nevins  wants 
me  to  stand  sponsor  for  his  'Mother's  Plague'  or  some 
such  nonsense.  Come !" 

Michael  yielded.  He  seldom  withstood  Driscoll.  "The 
work  may  go,"  he  said.  "  It's  your  work,  anyway.  But  for 
you  I  shouldn't  be  in  the  world  to  -  day,"  he  added,  awk 
wardly. 

Driscoll  laughed  as  he  swung  open  the  door.  "  Spare 
me,  my  good  fellow,"  he  said,  "don't  —  don't  shove  such 
a  responsibility  upon  me.  So  I  am  the  unconscious  instru 
ment  of  your  evil  fate  ?" 

At  the  Academy  Michael  loitered  about  while  Driscoll 
went  in  pursuit  of  "The  Mother's  Plague"  and  its  creator. 
Presently  he  came  back.  "Confound  it,"  he  said,  "I  can't 
find  the  thing.  What  does  a  man  want  to  make  such  a 
fool  of  himself,  anyway,  as  to  paint  plagues.  There're 
enough  of  them  in  real  life.  By-the-bye,  have  you  seen  the 
gem  of  the  exhibition  ?  It's  that  gray  thing  over  there  by 
Rachel  Gavin — a  study  of  dawn.  Ah  !  there  is  Miss  Gavin 
herself  before  it." 

Michael  turned.  It  was  the  girl  of  the  evening  before, 
flannel  blouse,  yachting-cap,  and  all.  The  same  prominent, 
sensitive  features,  the  same  wide  mouth  with  its  long  curl 
ing  upper-lip,  the  same  eyes  with  the  purple  shadows  under 
them  as  though  worked  in  with  India-ink.  The  same  im 
passioned,  brooding,  concentrated  expression.  The  same 
evanescent  passage  of  thought  across  the  mouth  and  eyes. 
She  was  alone,  her  drawing-block  under  her  arm,  her  pencil 
in  her  ungloved  hand. 

As  Michael  looked  she  knelt  before  a  picture  which  had 
been  hung  near  the  floor. 

"When  she  gets  up,"  said  Driscoll,  "she  will  know  how 
every  stroke  was  put  in.  Nothing  escapes  her.  It's  pluck 
that  girl  has,  and  to  spare.  For  man  or  woman  it  is  no  joke 


g6  THE   DESCENDANT 

to  work  ten  hours  a  day  at  an  easel,  but  she  has  done  it. 
If  you'll  wait  a  moment  I'll  speak  to  her." 

He  crossed  the  room,  and  Michael  saw  him  bend  above 
the  kneeling  figure. 

"At  your  shrine,  as  usual,  Miss  Gavin,"  he  said.  The 
girl  glanced  up,  rose,  and  held  out  her  hand.  She  spoke, 
but  Michael  did  not  catch  her  words. 

Presently  Driscoll  came  back. 

"  I  asked  her  about  the  *  Plague,'  "  he  said,  "  and  she  says 
she'll  look  out  for  it.  By-the-bye — "  He  stopped,  for  the 
girl  was  at  his  elbow.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Driscoll,"  she  said,  "  I've 
found  it.  It's  over  there  in  the  corner,  behind  the  '  Peach- 
tree.'  " 

She  spoke  rapidly,  gliding  over  her  vowels  with  a  soft, 
Southern  accent. 

"  And  since  you've  discovered  it,"  said  Driscoll,  "  will  you 
kindly  unfold  to  me  its  merits  or  demerits  ?  By-the-bye, 
you  won't  mind  knowing  Akershem,  Miss  Gavin.  He  is 
simply  dying  to  mee.t  you.  He  hasn't  said  so,  but  he  has 
looked  it.  You  have  much  in  common,  I've  no  doubt.  You 
paint,  and  he — well,  he  would  like  to  if  he  could,  only  he 
can't,  you  know." 

"  Oh  !  'The  Mother's  Plague.'  Now,  really,  will  you  tell 
me  if  that  chest  of  drawers  is  well  done  or  if  it  is  not  ?  I'm 
not  asking  out  of  idle  curiosity,  mind  you.  I  have  to  write 
an  article  about  it  and  I  want  to  know." 

Up  went  the  sensitive  corners  of  the  girl's  mouth,  and  the 
fine  lines  about  the  eyes  came  into  play.  Michael  thought 
he  had  never  seen  anything  so  delightful  as  the  way  in 
which  these  irregular  little  eye  dimples  came  and  went. 
She  put  up  her  hand  and  brushed  a  stray  lock  of  hair  from 
her  temple,  fastening  it  by  means  of  a  tiny  hairpin  into  the 
dark  coil  behind.  "  That  depends,"  she  said.  "  Do  you 
speak  of  Art  or  Nature  ?  For  Nature  I  should  consider  it 
somewhat  too  ethereal.  In  fact,  a  chest  of  drawers  liable 
to  become  absorbed  in  the  surrounding  atmosphere.  For 
Art — well,  it  is  a  conscientious  sacrifice  of  form  to  color." 


THE    DESCENDANT  57 

"Well,"  said  Driscoll,  "that  shows  the  use  of  an  inquir 
ing  mind.  Now,  if  I  hadn't  asked  your  opinion  I  should 
have  strongly  suspected  my  friend  Nevins  of  being  guilty  of 
a  daub." 

"  It  is  well  hung,"  said  Michael,  hastily.  "  It  has  an  ex 
cellent  foil  in  those  bananas  to  your  right." 

Then  he  became  conscious  of  having  said  an  awkward 
thing,  for  a  young  fellow  near  him  blushed  hotly  and  sham 
bled  off. 

The  girl  frowned,  with  an  imperious  wrinkling  of  her 
brow.  Then  she  slipped  past  him  in  bold  pursuit  of  the 
departing  figure  of  the  young  man.  "Oh,  Mr.  Buttons!" 
she  called.  He  turned  and  came  eagerly  towards  her. 

"I  have  just  noticed  your  fruit!"  she  said.  "Do  come 
and  tell  me  how  you  worked  in  those  shadows.  I  am  dy 
ing  to  know." 

The  young  fellow  grew  radiant,  then  flushed  scarlet,  and 
together  they  leaned  over  the  picture.  Driscoll  drew  back 
and  laughed. 

"  That  is  like  her,"  he  said.  "  She  wouldn't  hurt  the  lad 
for  worlds.  He  is  as  sensitive  as  a  baby.  I  remember  her 
cutting  him  upon  the  street  one  day  and  then  running  a 
block  to  apologize.  I  reminded  her  at  the  time  that  she 
had  cut  Stetherson  as  well,  and  she  laughed  and  said, '  Oh, 
that  is  different.  That  doesn't  matter;  he  has  left  off 
painting  bananas,  you  know.'  " 

"  It  is  like  me,  too,"  said  Michael,  gloomily.  "  I  never 
had  a  trace  of  manners  in  my  life,  and,  what's  more,  I  never 
expect  to  have  any ;  and,  what's  more,  I  don't  care  a — a 
—a—" 

"  Don't  excite  yourself,  my  dear  fellow.  It  doesn't  mat 
ter.  By  to-morrow  she  will  have  forgotten  all  about  it,  and 
about  you,  too.  Well,  let's  be  off.  By-the-bye,  where  are 
you  staying  now  ?  Old  place  ?" 

"  No.  I  have  taken  apartments  in  the  Templeton.  Come 
up  this  evening  and  give  me  a  room-warming,  I've  just 
moved  in." 


58  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  Oh,  the  Templeton  !  I  believe  that's  where  Miss  Gavin 
is.  You're  neighbors.  Well,  I'll  dine  with  you  to-night, 
somewhere.  At  your  rooms? — so  much  the  better." 

He  swung  leisurely  across  to  the  avenue,  and  Michael 
went  back  to  the  office. 


CHAPTER   III 

PEOPLE  said  it  was  a  pity  that  John  Driscoll  had  thrown 
himself  away.  John  Driscoll  said  that  he  might  have  done 
something  great  if  he  had  not  preferred  doing  nothing. 
However  that  may  be,  for  greatness  is  relative,  and  Dris 
coll  was  hardly  the  best  judge,  the  fact  that  he  had  never 
done  anything  was  indisputable,  the  theory  that  he  might 
have  done  something  untenable  and  easily  assailed.  As 
every  man  who  has  not  written  a  play,  recklessly  proving 
his  inability,  is  convinced  that  he  could  write  one  if  he  only 
chose,  so  every  man  who  has  not  made  desperate  throws  at 
success  is  equally  convinced  that  it  is  a  matter  of  choice. 
It  is  only  after  one  has  striven  and  strewn  the  path  of 
balked  ambition  with  bloody  sweat  that  the  mocking  finger 
of  Failure  may  be  pointed  and  may  hurt.  He  is  a  wise 
man  who  has  not  fallen  because  he  has  not  climbed.  "As 
long  as  it's  my  own  fault  that  I'm  a  failure,"  said  Driscoll, 
"  I  don't  care ;  if  it  had  been  the  fault  of  Providence  I'd 
have  been  blamed  mad." 

At  college  he  had  been  noted  for  his  versatility  and  his 
vacillation.  He  had  picked  up  Latin  and  Greek  as  one 
picks  up  the  alphabet,  had  plodded  away  at  Sanscrit  with 
marked  success ;  had  wearied  of  the  classics  and  turned  to 
law.  In  a  year  he  had  taken  his  B.  L.  and  satiety,  but,  in 
stead  of  leaving  college,  he  had  thrown  himself  with  a  fe 
verish  zest  into  natural  science,  and  finally,  when  he  left  for 
a  naturalist's  voyage  to  South  America,  he  carried  with  him 
the  enthusiastic  commendations  of  the  faculty  and  the 
paternal  blessing  of  the  chair  of  biology. 

For  several  years  the  promise  seemed  approaching  ful 
filment  ;  he  was  heard  from  constantly,  and  the  scientific  re- 


60  THE    DESCENDANT 

views  carried  his  name.  He  brought  out  a  small  work  upon 
South  American  Sea  Urchins,  and  later  another  upon  Rudi 
mentary  Nervous  Systems.  Then  for  a  time  he  was  lost  sight 
of,  and  just  as  the  American  biologists  were  beginning  to 
look  for  a  more  ambitious  venture  from  their  promising  dis 
ciple,  there  appeared  upon  the  literary  market  the  first  vol 
ume  of  what  seemed  to  be  a  work  of  widely  comprehensive 
scope  entitled  Ethnic  Affinities.  The  book  bore  the  name 
of  John  Driscoll.  Ethnologists  applauded  and  looked  eager 
ly  forward  to  the  completion  of  the  survey,  but  no  second 
volume  was  forthcoming,  although  John  Driscoll  himself  was. 
Quite  unexpectedly  he  loomed  upon  the  horizon,  interested, 
interesting,  and  alert. 

"  Oh,  my  Ethnic  Affinities  !  I've  given  that  up  long  ago," 
he  said.  "It  is  all  bosh,  you  know.  What  is  the  use  of 
pottering  about  among  pots  and  kettles  and  customs  ?"  He 
mingled  in  society  for  a  while,  becoming  easily  the  idol  of 
the  hour ;  then  he  arranged  and  executed  an  expedition  in 
the  direction  of  what  is  supposed  to  be  the  North  Pole. 

At  the  end  of  three  months  he  was  found  and  brought 
home  by  a  rescuing  party,  and  after  a  long  illness  he  put 
aside  science  and  went  into  politics.  But  he  was  indepen 
dent,  and  independence  is  often  out  of  place,  and  always 
out  of  office.  He  wrote  clever,  keen-sighted  articles  against 
the  Republican  Administration,  and  voted  the  Democratic 
ticket;  then  the  Democrats  came  in  and  he  saw  their  errors 
as  clearly  as  he  had  seen  the  errors  of  their  opponents.  The 
articles  against  the  Democratic  Administration  were  just  as 
clever  and  just  as  keen-sighted,  and  he  voted  the  Republi 
can  ticket. 

"  Must  I  blindfold  myself  because  of  party  principles  ?" 
he  asked,  and  he  wrote  against  them  one  and  all.  He  got 
disgusted  with  the  government  and  became  a  Socialist.  The 
Socialists  welcomed  him  with  acclamations  and  triumphant 
cheers,  but  upon  nearer  inspection  he  perceived  the  defects 
in  the  platform  and  he  made  clever,  sarcastic  "  copy  "  out 
of  them  for  the  magazines.  He  wrote  for  the  party,  but  he 


THE    DESCENDANT  6l 

wrote  against  the  party  errors,  and  the  party  got  mad,  as 
was  highly  proper.  They  charged  him  with  being  a  traitor, 
and  a  battle  ensued. 

Then  a  wealthy  syndicate  purchased  The  Labor  Gazette, 
rechristened  it  The  Iconoclast,  backed  its  success  with  an 
array  of  cool  millions,  and  offered  Mr.  Driscoll  the  leader 
ship.  Mr.  Driscoll  accepted.  It  was  a  new  opening,  a 
chance  for  some  skilful  pioneering,  difficulties  to  clear  away 
and  a  path  to  hew  out.  It  represented  a  change,  and  he 
liked  it.  For  five  years  he  stuck  to  it  faithfully.  At  first 
he  infused  new  life  into  the  journal ;  he  made  it  clever, 
humorous,  candid  ;  but  it  held  no  convictions,  it  followed  no 
party,  it  wavered  incessantly.  For  six  months  it  preached 
the  boldest  radicalism,  when  the  quick,  scrutinizing  glance 
saw  the  faults  upon  its  own  side,  the  good  upon  its  oppo 
nents'.  He  veered  round,  and  the  orthodox  party  raised  a 
thanksgiving  over  the  conversion.  He  soon  deserted  them 
and  followed  the  Socialists ;  he  took  to  admonishing  the 
Socialists,  and  they  objected.  The  end  was  a  combat  royal 
between  The  Iconoclast  and  all  organized  parties. 

People  said  that  it  was  lack  of  principle,  but  it  was  not. 
Too  much  principle  is  often  more  harmful  than  too  little. 
He  had  too  much  honesty  to  say  what  he  did  not  believe,  a 
bad  thing  in  political  life ;  and  he  was  too  quick-sighted 
not  to  perceive  a  rotten  core  because  he  happened  to  have 
eaten  the  apple. 

"  You  have  no  settled  convictions,"  said  a  friend  to  him 
one  day.  "  A  serious  fault." 

"  Confound  convictions,"  retorted  Driscoll ;  "  they  are  al 
ways  getting  in  the  way  of  opportunities.  The  only  con 
victions  a  man  of  sense  should  entertain  are  those  that  ad 
just  themselves  to  circumstances." 

"  Pshaw  !"  said  his  friend.  "  The  opportunities  you've 
thrown  away  would  have  made  forty  men,  had  they  picked 
them  up." 

"  No  doubt,"  assented  Driscoll ;  "  but  they  would  have 
been  deuced  bored  in  the  making." 


62  THE    DESCENDANT 

And  then,  when  he  had  wearied  of  The  Iconoclast,  and  had 
left  it  to  wither  away  while  he  worked  out  A  Theory  of  Dy 
namics,  the  door  opened  and  Michael  Akershem  appeared. 

Reckless,  energetic,  impassioned,  ready  to  throw  heart 
and  brain  into  the  cause,  Driscoll  hailed  him  as  a  new  and 
powerful  element.  As  Michael  Akershem  warmed  to  the 
work  Driscoll  felt  the  load  slipping  from  his  own  wearied 
shoulders. 

"  Here  is  the  channel,"  said  Driscoll,  "for  your  bitterness 
and  brilliancy.  Rail  at  society.  I  do  not  think  it  can  hurt 
you,  and  I'm  quite  sure  it  will  not  hurt  society.  You're  the 
right  man  in  the  right  place.  You  aren't  cursed  with  the 
ability  to  see  both  sides.  Go  ahead." 

Michael  went  ahead,  and  Driscoll  felt  the  weight  lighten 
ing  upon  his  shoulders.  Then  by  a  skilful  manoeuvre  he 
had  released  himself  from  the  editorship  and  installed  Aker 
shem  in  his  place.  Akershem  was  satisfied,  the  syndicate 
was  satisfied,  and  Driscoll  was  more  than  satisfied. 

Seven  years  ago  Michael  Akershem,  desperate,  hungry, 
malevolent,  had  come  upon  John  Driscoll  as  he  sat  smok 
ing  in  his  office  chair.  To-day  Michael  Akershem  stood 
before  the  world  envied,  if  not  applauded ;  admired,  if  not 
esteemed.  Between  the  two  estates  a  wide  gulf  yawned, 
and  the  gulf  had  been  bridged  by  Driscoll.  Behind  his 
success,  his  independence,  his  brilliant  career,  reached  forth 
the  sustaining  hand,  and  the  hand  was  Driscoll's.  With  an 
impassioned  loyalty  Akershem  recognized  and  acknowl 
edged  the  debt.  It  was  the  one  indissoluble  bond  that 
united  him  to  humanity ;  the  one  ray  of  white  light  shed 
upon  the  turbid  passion  of  his  soul. 

Seven  years  ago,  if  Michael  Akershem  could  have  looked 
ahead  and  seen  himself  standing  as  he  stood  to-day,  he 
would  probably  have  said :  "  It  is  well ;  my  ambition  is 
overleaped,"  and  yet  to-day  that  ambition  loomed  as  vast 
and  far  off  as  it  had  done  seven  years  ago.  The  fortune 
that  he  followed  was  a  chimera,  the  load-star  of  a  fevered 
brain.  The  mirage  stretched  like  an  unconquered  world 


THE    DESCENDANT  63 

before  him  ;  he  went  forward,  and,  as  he  moved,  it  flitted 
onward — never  any  nearer — always  blue  and  satisfying  and 
beyond. 

There  is  no  state  of  satisfaction,  because  to  himself  no 
man  is  a  success.  Let  the  public  shower  laudations  as  it 
will,  a  man  who  has  planted  his  foot  upon  the  steep  be 
holds  the  summit,  upon  the  summit  beholds  the  heaven. 
At  every  step  he  treads  the  unending  circle  of  ambition, 
the  undiscovered  height  in  the  distance  looming  higher, 
higher. 

A  couple  of  years  after  Michael  Akershem  came  to  New 
York  Driscoll  initiated  him,  so  to  speak,  into  the  ceremonies 
of  society. 

"Mrs.  Stuyvesant-Smyth  means  to  take  you  up,"  he  said, 
one  day,  tossing  a  card  across  the  table.  "I'm  to  dine 
there  next  week,  and  she  desires  me  to  bring  my  *  dreadful 
friend,  Mr.  Akershem.'  " 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Smyth?"  asked  Michael. 

"  Mrs.  Stuyvesant-Smyth :  man,  if  you  have  to  drop  one 
don't  let  it  be  the  Stuyvesant.  Well,  she  holds  the  golden 
key  to  society,  and  no  one  questions  her  right  of  way,  but 
if  that  does  not  satisfy  you,  she  is  second  -  cousin  to  my 
unworthy  self." 

"Is  she  like  you?" 

"The  Driscoll  nose,  I  believe,  a  misfortune  which  drew 
us  together.  However,  she  calls  hers  the  Randolph,  as  her 
grandmother  married  a  Randolph  of  Virginia,  and  mine 
didn't;  but  calling  a  nose  a  Randolph  doesn't  make  it 
straight." 

"  But  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  say,"  remonstrated  Mi 
chael,  "  or  how  to  behave." 

"  Oh,  nobody  behaves  nowadays,  it  is  not  good  form ;  we 
leave  that  to  the  lower  classes.  Look  as  though  I  had 
dragged  you  there  by  the  hair  of  your  head  and  that  your 
worst  anticipations  were  realized.  When  she  asks  you  to 
her  'at  home,'  say,  'So  kind  of  you;  charmed,  I'm  sure'; 
and  look  as  much  like  a  liar  as  possible.  If  you  tread  on 


64  THE    DESCENDANT 

her   gown,  as   you   probably  will,  don't  blush  and   don't 
stammer — 

"  And  you  think  I'd  better  go  ?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Driscoll,  "  it's  her  fault,  so  she  can't  blame 
anybody.  I  told  her  you  weren't  her  style  and  that  you'd 
be  the  deuce  in  society,  but  she  insisted.  She's  just  like 
all  women,  running  mad  over  something  new,  especially  if 
it's  a  man  with  hair  like  a  brush  fence  and  no  reputation  to 
speak  of." 
"  Driscoll !" 

"  Well,  the  hair  speaks  for  itself,  and  the  world  speaks  for 
the  reputation,  you  know.  I  don't  mean  that  you  deserve 
it,  my  dear  Shem ;  a  man's  reputation  has  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  what  a  man  is.  A  virtuous  man  is  simply  a  man 
whom  nobody  knows  anything  about;  a  vicious  man,  one 
whom  somebody  has  been  clever  enough  to  find  out.  Why, 
look  at  Hedley  Semple !  there  is  not  a  better  man,  morally^ 
in  New  York ;  but  he  has  been  discovered,  as  it  were,  and 
the  women  who  won't  notice  Semple  on  the  street  will  fawn 
over  Madison  Lyons,  who  hasn't  a  shred  of  honor  to  his 
back.  You  see  it  is  wiser  to  be  conventionally  immoral 
than  unconventionally  moral.  It  isn't  the  immorality  they 
object  to,  but  the  originality." 

And  Michael  went. 

When  entering  Mrs.  Stuyvesant- Smyth's  rooms  he  was 
all  but  blinded  by  the  glare  of  light;  when  taking  Mrs. 
Stuyvesant-Smyth's  hand,  he  was  dazzled  by  her  diamonds 
and  her  beauty.  He  felt  helpless  and  ill  at  ease;  he  was 
conscious  of  himself,  of  his  twenty -one  years,  and  of  his 
feet  and  hands. 

Down  to  dinner  he  carried  a  lady  with  a  chin,  who  talked 
shrilly  and  asked  him  his  opinion  of  the  President's  private 
character  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  She  was  a  new  woman, 
but  Michael  did  not  recognize  the  species.  Concerning 
the  President,  he  had  no  opinion  and  he  gave  none ;  he 
only  looked  at  his  plate  and  wondered  which  fork  to  use  and 
which  glass  to  drink  out  of.  When  the  hock  was  passed 


THE   DESCENDANT  65 

he  allowed  it  to  be  poured  into  his  champagne  glass,  and 
then,  realizing  that  he  had  committed  a  breach  of  etiquette, 
blushed  and  was  as  miserable  as  if  it  had  been  a  breach  of 
honor— perhaps  more  so.  He  glanced  desperately  across 
at  Driscoll  and  found  the  shrewd,  quick-sighted  eyes  fixed 
upon  him.  Then,  as  the  hock  was  brought  to  Driscoll,  he 
pushed  forward  his  champagne  glass. 

"  A  habit  I  got  into  in  South  America,"  he  said,  careless 
ly,  meeting  the  eyes  of  his  hostess ;  "  a  connoisseur  never 
changes  his  wine-glasses." 

Mrs.  Stuyvesant-Smyth  had  beamed  upon  him  as  every 
one  beamed  upon  Driscoll,  and  Michael  had  thrown  him  a 
glance  of  passionate  gratitude,  which  Driscoll  ignored  with 
his  easy  smile.  Looking  back  across  all  the  years  of  gen 
erosity  and  friendship,  Michael  knew  that  all  else  that  Dris 
coll  had  done  for  him  was  found  wanting  when  weighed  in  the 
balance  with  that  one  small  act  of  social  courtesy.  From  that 
moment  he  had  loved  John  Driscoll  as  a  man  loves  a  man,  and 
with  a  love  which  passeth  the  love  of  woman  for  woman. 

"  I  shall  never  go  to  another  dinner,  so  help  me  Provi 
dence  !"  Michael  had  said  as  they  walked  homeward. 
"  What's  the  use  of  all  that  confounded  ceremony,  anyway  ? 
This  isn't  an  Oriental  monarchy." 

Driscoll  stopped  to  light  a  cigar,  puffing  leisurely  away. 

"  It  was  funny,"  he  assented,  "  to  hear  you  apologizing  to 
Miss  La  Mode  for  spoiling  her  pinafore." 

"  She  didn't  have  any  to  spare,"  said  Michael ;  and  then 
he  added,  "  How  beautiful  Mrs.  Stuyvesant-Smyth  is  !  I 
never  saw  such  color  in  my  life." 

Driscoll  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  "  Nor  ever 
will  in  life''  he  said.  "  My  dear  Shem,  your  innocence 
shall  become  proverbial.  I  shouldn't  mention  it  if  she 
weren't  my  relation,  but  she  is  the  most  palpably  made-up 
woman  in  New  York." 

"  I  don't  see  the  use  in  it  all,"  said  Michael.  "  If  that  is 
society,  society  seems  to  me  a  deuced  unhealthy  thing.  I've 
done  with  it." 

i 


66  THE    DESCENDANT 

"A  wise  decision,  since,  most  probably,  society  has  done 
with  you.  I  told  Alicia  you'd  be  the  deuce  at  a  dinner,  and 
now  she  knows  it.  Taking  Mrs.  Stuyvesant-Smyth  as  the 
incarnation  of  society's  creed,  the  world  will  forgive  you 
sooner  for  breaking  your  choice  of  the  ten  commandments, 
provided,  of  course,  you  do  it  elegantly,  than  for,  let  us  say, 
drinking  out  of  your  finger  -  bowl."  Then  he  laughed. 
"  As  long  as  you  had  to  get  mixed  up,  Shem,  you  might 
have  scored  a  point  by  ordering  champagne  in  a  goblet. 
You'd  have  won  social  distinction  and  the  reputation  of  a 
rake.  To  an  ambitious  man  the  loss  of  such  an  oppor 
tunity  is  galling." 

"Your  story  about  South  America  was  good,"  said 
Michael,  still  smiling. 

"  I  flatter  myself,"  said  Driscoll,  complacently  flicking  the 
ashes  from  his  cigar,  "  that  nobody  can  serve  a  better  lie 
than  I  when  I'm  put  to  it.  I  don't  say  that  I  make  lying  a 
specialty,  but  I  do  say  that  a  lie  to  suit  my  taste  must  be 
highly  flavored  and  done  to  a  turn.  A  clever  lie  sits  no 
heavier  upon  the  conscience  than  a  stupid  one — " 

Some  hours  later  when  Michael  went  up  to  his  room,  he 
outlined  a  set  of  resolutions  as  he  drew  off  his  coat. 

"I've  done  with  people,"  he  said,  "and  women  and — 
fools.  If  I  ever  go  to  another  dinner-party  I  hope  I'll 
be — "  and  the  light  went  out. 

John  Driscoll  had  gone  home,  smiling  to  himself.  "  Aker- 
shenvs  a  queer  fellow,"  he  thought ;  "  a  deuced  queer  fel 
low."  He  felt  a  certain  uneasiness,  despite  his  flippant 
bearing.  In  a  sense  he  had  stood  sponsor  to  Michael's 
career,  and  the  responsibility  of  the  office  began  to  mani 
fest  itself.  It  was  as  if  he  himself  had  served  to  impel  the 
boy  upon  his  headlong  course,  for  had  it  not  been  for  his 
own  instability  and  the  need  of  The  Iconoclast,  he  felt 
that  circumstances  must  have  tempered  the  fire  of  Aker- 
shem's  spirit.  A  graver  lesson  might  have  been  taught  him 
by  labor  and  experience.  Lacking  the  power  to  give  vent 


THE   DESCENDANT  67 

to  his  intolerance,  it  must  at  last  have  burned  itself  to 
smoke.  But  with  no  surer  knowledge  of  life  than  a  child 
that  has  been  fed  upon  fairy  tales,  he  had  hurled  like  thun 
derbolts  his  curses  upon  conventions.  Sustained  by  the 
brilliancy  that  gave  them  utterance,  the  curses  had  not 
fallen  to  earth,  but  were  still  reverberating  through  the  air. 

A  check  must  be  put  upon  Akershem.  This  Driscoll 
knew,  and  he  also  knew  that  his  hand  alone  must  apply  the 
brake.  If  Michael  would  not  hearken  to  him,  to  whom 
would  he  hearken  ?  "  Bless  me,  but  I  feel  like  cutting," 
said  Driscoll.  "I'd  like  to  make  off  for  the  wilds  of 
Africa,"  and  he  added,  "  only  I'm  tired  of  savages." 

But  some  days  later  he  relented ;  for  one  evening  about 
dusk  he  was  called  to  Akershem,  who  lay  with  a  broken  leg 
in  Bellevue  Hospital.  It  had  been  for  a  dirty  little  waif, 
the  nurse  told  him,  a  crippled  newsboy,  who  had  fallen 
under  a  cable-car.  The  gentleman  had  been  by,  and  the 
gentleman  had  gone  to  his  help.  It  was  a  brave  deed,  and 
all  for  a  dirty  little  newsboy  with  a  crippled  back. 

Michael  smiled  as  Driscoll  bent  over  him. 

"  This  is  uncomfortable,"  he  said,  "  and  it  will  keep  me 
laid  up  for  months.  What  a  bore  !" 

"  Shem,"  said  Driscoll,  looking  down  upon  the  strong 
figure,  the  helpless,  splintered  limb ;  seeing  with  a  fresh 
sense  of  wonderment  the  bitter  mouth,  the  nervous,  blink 
ing  eyes,  "  Shem,  it  might  have  meant  death.  An  accident 
saved  you.  Why  did  you  do  it  ?" 

Akershem  laughed  weakly ;  his  hand  was  clenched  upon 
the  sheet,  his  face  was  pallid  with  self-restraint.  He  looked 
like  the  wreck  of  the  hardy,  fearless  fellow  of  yesterday. 

And  yet,  John  Driscoll,  looking  down  upon  him,  started 
and  fell  back,  wonder-stricken  by  the  evanescent  light  upon 
his  face.  All  the  good  deeds  he  might  have  done,  all  the 
pure  thoughts  he  might  have  thought,  seemed  to  circle  in  a 
humanized  radiance  about  his  head.  A  fleeting  look,  and 
yet  John  Driscoll  felt  a  sudden  chill  of  regret,  for  that  one 
moment  had  shown  him  the  man,  not  as  he  was,  but  as  he 


68  THE    DESCENDANT 

might  have  been  had  not  the  corroding  grasp  of  shame 
fastened  upon  his  soul— had  the  sins  of  the  fathers  passed 
in  honor  the  head  of  the  child. 

But  Akershem  laughed. 

"If  it  had  been  any  one  else,"  he  said,  "perhaps  I 
shouldn't ,  but,  you  see,  he  was  such  a  poor  little  cuss,  I 
couldn't  help  it." 

All  impulse  and  emotion  !  The  best  as  well  as  the  worst 
in  him  was  the  result  of  those  swift,  spasmodic  changes. 
He  was  neither  wholly  good  nor  wholly  bad  ;  it  was  a  ques 
tion  of  chance ;  right  was  up,  impetuous,  supreme  ;  in  a  flash 
rose  wrong  and  checkmated  it.  The  elements  of  his  nature 
warred  one  with  another.  Apart  they  might  have  formed  a 
wholesome  simplicity;  meeting  they  mixed  a  poisonous 
complexity.  It  was  as  impossible  to  stem  the  force  of  his 
will  as  to  change  the  current  of  the  wind,  which  bloweth 
where  it  listeth. 

John  Driscoll  shook  his  head  and  went  away. 

"  Akershem,"  he  said,  "  is  in-com-pre-hen-si-ble." 


CHAPTER  IV 

AND  Rachel  Gavin  ? 

An  English  art  critic,  seeing  her  at  this  time,  had  writ 
ten  home  to  one  of  the  London  dailies  :  "  Among  the  young 
er  American  painters,  the  work  of  two  women  gives  unques 
tionably  the  highest  promise.  The  one  a  Bostonian,  Claude 
Munro,  and  the  other  a  Southerner,  Rachel  Gavin.  At 
present,  Miss  Munro's  work  exhibits  greater  knowledge  of 
technique,  Miss  Gavin's  more  original  power,  the  crudity 
it  presents  resulting  from  a  triumph  of  idea  over  execution. 
We  shall  follow  with  interest  their  respective  careers.  .  .  . 
In  appearance,"  he  added,  "one  is  impressed  by  the  dis 
similarity —  Miss  Munro  possesses  a  beauty  which  is  at 
once  noticeable,  Miss  Gavin  is  at  first  disappointing,  after 
wards  satisfying." 

And  yesterday  the  critic  paused  in  the  salon  before  a 
picture  of  Claude  Munro's  and  wondered  what  had  become 
of  the  other,  the  young  Southerner,  with  her  unconscious 
spontaneity  of  manner  and  her  exuberant  ambition.  "It's 
a  pity,"  he  said  to  himself  ;^  "  she  might  have  done  great 
things.  Married,  I  suppose,  and  expending  her  genius  in 
the  nursing  of  hiccoughy  babies.  And  yet  they  expect  to 
make  women  sensible  !"  and  then  he  forgot  all  about  her. 

As  for  Rachel  herself,  she  had  laughed  over  the  criticism, 
one  of  her  rippling,  mirthful  laughs. 

"  Do  I  resemble  a  pumpkin  pie  ?"  she  asked.  "  Is  it  in 
shape  or  complexion  ?  For  we  have  the  happy  quality  in 
common  that  has  both  disappointed  and  satisfied  Mr. 

A 's  critical  taste.     Is  it  original  with  the  pumpkin  or 

with  me?" 

And  she  went  about  her  work  with  unabated  energy. 


70  THE    DESCENDANT 


What  if  she  paused  to  pat  the  heads  of  the  street  urchins 
along  the  way,  or  lingered  at  the  flower  stalls  to  banter 
words  with  a  rheumatic  old  woman,  who  had  ten  children, 
and  six  of  them  down  with  the  grippe  ?  She  went  about 
her  work,  nevertheless,  and  the  ten  hours  daily  were  spent 
before  her  easel. 

She  was  a  wholesome  young  person,  with  a  well-reg 
ulated  nervous  system  and  a  great  power  of  self-absorp 
tion.  When  she  expended  herself  she  expended  herself 
utterly.  There  had  been  no  half-measures  in  her  concen 
tration.  Her  work  had  demanded  her  time,  and  she  had 
yielded  it ;  it  demanded  her  vitality,  and  she  yielded  that 
as  well. 

An  earnest  little  thing  she  was,  good  at  times  and  bad 
at  times,  like  the  rest  of  us.  Merry  at  times  and  sad  at 
times,  with  an  effervescent  font  of  animal  spirits  which 
overflowed  in  laughter  or  in  tears,  in  anger  or  in  jollity,  as 
the  case  might  be.  She  had  read  much  in  books  and  little 
in  life,  being  wise  in  theories  and  ignorant  in  facts,  and 
possessing  a  good  deal  of  that  ignorance  which  is  mis- 
termed  innocence.  Her  clear  glance  had  swept  over  nature, 
and  had  found  all  things  pure  and  nothing  common. 

Some  twenty  odd  years  ago,  when  she  was  a  great-eyed 
slip  of  a  girl  in  a  blue  pinafore,  she  had  sketched,  in  her 
rash,  impulsive  way,  her  philosophy  of  life.  "  If  you  is  good, 
like  mamma,"  she  said,  "you,  don't  have  any  fun,  an'  if 
you're  mean  like  Aunt  Sue  nobody  loves  you.  So  I  reck 
on  I  won't  be  neither ;  I'll  be  good  at  first  till  people  love 
me  so  they  can't  stop,  an'  then  I'll  go  to  work  an'  have  some 
fun."  In  those  days  she  was  rather  inclined  to  be  naughty 
than  otherwise,  with  a  pinafore  that  was  always  soiled  in 
front  and  stockings  that  were  continually  slipping  over  her 
knees  and  having  to  be  pulled  up  with  a  jerk.  She  had 
grown  up  upon  an  old  plantation,  making  mud  pies  in  the 
ditch  or  climbing  on  the  lap  of  old  Uncle  Zeke. 

Uncle  Zeke  was  black  and  ugly,  with  only  one  leg  with 
which  to  walk  and  only  one  eye  with  which  to  see.     No- 


THE    DESCENDANT  71 

body  loved  him  but  Rachel,  and  Rachel  adored  him.  "  It's 
a  mystery,"  her  mother  had  said ;  "  I  don't  understand. 
Why,  Uncle  Zeke  is  the  most  worthless  darky  on  the  place." 
And  she  had  said  to  the  child,  "  I  believe  Rachel  loves  Un 
cle  Zeke  more  than  mamma." 

The  child  leaned  her  small  white  face  upon  her  clasped 
hands  and  looked  away  into  space.  "  No  !"  she  said  ;  "  I 
reckon  I  loves  mamma  best,  but  I  feels  sorrier  for  Uncle 
Zeke." 

And  she  had  gone  through  life  upon  the  same  great 
principle. 

"  I  like  interesting  people  better,"  she  said,  "  but  I  feel 
sorrier  for  the  bores.  There  are  so  many  of  them,  you 
know,  and  they  must  have  such  a  tiresome  time  among 
themselves." 

But  her  redundant  vitality  served  her  well,  and  the  sur 
plus  energy  was  worked  off  in  little  sparkling  outshoots  of 
Sympathy.  She  was  seldom  bored.  "Why,  the  old  woman 
at  the  flower  stall,"  she  said  one  day,  "is  quite  diverting. 
Six  of  her  children  have  the  grippe  and  they've  all  taken 
different  prescriptions.  And  she  has  given  me  every  one, 
from  castor-oil  to  sassafras  tea." 

So  she  knocked  about  the  world  and  went  unharmed,  and 
scorned  nothing,  and  wept  and  laughed  by  turns. 

When  she  came  to  New  York,  alone  and  not  quite  penni 
less,  with  a  package  of  introductory  letters  in  her  bag,  and 
a  great  deal  of  determination  in  her  brain,  she  had  found 
that  the  path  of  art  was  not  without  its  allotted  share  of 
stumbling-stones.  But  being  an  energetic  young  person, 
she  had  set  to  work  to  haul  the  stones  out  of  her  way. 
"  Success  and  society  are  contradictions  with  me,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "One  cannot  talk  and  toil.  You  can't  keep 
your  art  and  your  acquaintances  too."  So  she  had  chosen 
the  better  part,  tossed  the  introductory  letters  into  the  fire, 
bought  an  outfit  of  flannel  blouses  and  yachting-caps,  brush 
ed  all  her  fine  dark  hair  back  from  her  forehead,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  follow  the  path  of  her  choice. 


72  THE   DESCENDANT 

She  lived  in  a  suite  of  rooms  consisting  of  a  bedroom 
and  studio  on  the  fifth  floor  of  the  Templeton,  got  her 
breakfast  in  the  restaurant  on  the  ground  floor,  brewed  her 
cups  of  tea  at  luncheon  on  the  tiny  stove  behind  the  Japa 
nese  screen  in  her  studio,  and  took  her  dinner  wherever  fate 
and  fortune  chanced  to  favor. 

She  held  out  a  frank  right  hand  to  the  world  and  his 
wife,  from  the  fat  man  at  breakfast  who  asked  her  if  she 
thought  that  she  was  descended  from  the  lost  tribes  of 
Israel,  to  the  dapper  young  Frenchman  who  inquired  "if 
ze  negroes  ver  not  quite  like  ze  human  being  ?" 

To  the  one  she  answered,  "  Oh,  I  hope  so,  don't  you  ? 
I  like  to  think  they're  found,  poor  things "  ;  and  to  the 
other,  "  Oh,  quite !  Almost  as  good  imitations  as  the 
French."  , 

So  Rachel  went  on  her  way.  A  little  woman  who  lived 
on  the  seventh  floor  had  summed  up  her  impending  fate  in 
a  doleful  prophecy.  The  little  woman  was  a  misogamist, 
as  well  she  might  be,  having  married  a  foreigner  in  her 
youth  to  repent  it  in  her  age.  "  She's  too  innocent  to  come 
to  any  good,"  she  said.  "  In  this  world  innocence  is  worse 
than  crime."  And  she  had  sighed  and  thought  of  the 
foreigner  who  had  smitten  her  upon  the  cheek  and  gone 
hence.  "  She'll  marry,  poor  thing,"  she  added,  "  and  she 
can't  do  worse  unless  it  be  to  marry  a  Frenchman." 

But  Rachel  was  unconscious  of  the  prophecy.  She  had 
left  romance  fastidiously  alone.  Once,  it  is  true,  there  had 
been  a  young  Southerner  who  had  pursued  her  with  zeal 
for  the  better  part  of  several  years.  He  was  convinced  that 
she  was  in  love  with  him,  and  endeavored  to  convince  her 
as  well.  In  the  end  he  had  almost  succeeded.  "  This  is 
love !"  the  girl  had  said,  and  she  had  repeated  it  to  herself 
at  intervals  for  a  whole  day.  In  the  afternoon  the  asser 
tions  weakened,  and  in  the  evening  she  confessed  her  in 
capacity.  "  I've  been  engaged  to  you  a  day,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  feel  as  if  it  were  a  century.  Sentiment  is  so  wear 
ing.  I  thought  I  was  in  love  with  you,  but  I'm  afraid  I 


THE   DESCENDANT  73 

can't  be.  When  one  is  in  love,  it  doesn't  nauseate  one  to 
be  kissed,  does  it  ?" 

And  the  young  Southerner  had  confessed  that  according 
to  the  current  creed  it  did  not.  "  Then  you  must  have  mis 
taken  the  symptoms,"  said  Rachel.  "  It  was  not  sentiment, 
after  all.  I  am  sorry  you  are  disappointed."  When  he  had 
gone,  after  many  tears  and  more  protestations,  the  girl  felt 
relieved  and  ten  years  younger. 

"  How  exhausting  is  the  effort  to  love !"  she  sighed.  And 
she  had  vowed  to  speak  to  no  man  except  Dupont,  the 
critic,  and  Annilt,  the  picture-dealer,  and  Chang  Lee,  who 
brought  her  clothes  home  from  the  laundry.  And  all  went 
well.  Dupont  slapped  her  upon  the  shoulder  and  said, 
"  Go  on.  You  have  the  heavenly  fire,"  She  got  into 
straits  and  pawned  her  watch,  and  got  out  again  and  re 
deemed  it.  She  toiled  and  shifted  and  suffered  and  went 
without.  She  laughed  and  cried  and  was  happy  and  miser 
able,  like  any  sensible,  well-ordered  human  being.  And 
then  she  met  Michael  Akershem. 

She  met  him  and  forgot  him  and  met  him  again.  The 
evening  after  seeing  him  at  the  Academy  she  came  up  late 
from  a  search  for  a  model  and  stumbled  against  him  in  the 
elevator. 

"  Good-evening,  St.  John." 

Michael  laughed.  "  So  you  haven't  forgotten,"  he  said. 
"  Really,  won't  you  take  me  as  a  model  ?  Finish  this 
charming  little  sketch  you  so  wantonly  destroyed.  See !" 
He  drew  a  folded  paper  from  his  pocket  and  held  it  out  to 
her.  Then  he  drew  it  back. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  you're  not  to  be  trusted.  But  I'll  give 
you  permission  to  make  another." 

He  bent  his  brilliant  glance  upon  her,  the  light  scintillat 
ing  between  the  blinking  lids.  Rachel  laughed  merrily. 
The  dimples  about  her  eyes  broke  forth,  away  went  the 
corners  of  her  mouth.  She  gave  a  little  audacious  toss  of 
her  head. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  said.     "  I've  taken   my  feather- 


74  THE   DESCENDANT 

duster  instead.  It  answers  very  well.  Thank  you  for  sug 
gesting  it  to  me.  It  was  the  striking  resemblance  that  gave 
me  the  idea." 

The  banter  was  so  new  to  him  that  he  bent  his  gaze  more 
firmly  upon  her,  his  wide  brow  wrinkling.  She  was  so 
small,  so  sensitive,  so  childlike,  that  he  felt  suddenly  tender. 
He  had  a  consciousness  that  he  could  crush  this  white  thing 
by  one  pressure  of  his  strong  arms.  He  looked  down  upon 
her,  noticing  the  slight,  full  figure,  the  breadth  of  the  shoul 
ders,  the  almost  childlike  slimness  of  the  limbs,  the  long, 
straight  neck  with  the  unconscious  poise  of  the  head. 

He  felt  a  strange,  new  sympathy,  a  tolerance,  nay,  a  ten 
derness  for  a  woman— and  a  young  woman  at  that.  Then 
the  elevator  stopped  and  she  stepped  to  the  landing.  He 
followed  her.  He  was  ignorant  of  the  ways  of  women,  but 
it  seemed  to  him  that  she  would  not  bring  this  good-fellow 
ship  to  a  close. 

"  Since  I  may  not  come  as  a  model,"  he  said,  "  may  I  not 
come  as  a  critic  ?  I  am  very  severe  and  very  just."  Then 
he  added,  "  If  not  this  evening — " 

"  Oh  r  said  Rachel,  "not  this  evening.  I  have  only  one 
teaspoonful  of  tea  in  the  canister  and  one  slice  of  bread  to 
toast,  and  I  want  both  myself.  But  some  other  time.  Not 
in  good  light,  because  I'm  always  working,  but  at  dusk  or 
by  lamplight  you  may  criticise  to  your  heart's  content." 

And  she  had  given  him  a  deep  glance  over  her  shoulder 
and  disappeared  behind  the  curtains  of  her  studio.  Michael 
turned  away  with  a  curious  feeling  of  suppressed  excite 
ment.  He  wanted  to  laugh — to  give  some  forcible  expres 
sion  to  his  state  of  mind.  He  felt  as  a  child  feels  that  has 
discovered  that  a  doll  has  hidden  springs  and  can  talk. 
Women  were  new  to  him.  He  had  shunned  them  conscien 
tiously,  with  a  morbid  belief  that  he  was  cast  in  a  different 
and  rougher  mould— that  their  sensitive  edges  would  shrink 
from  contact  with  his  unpolished  exterior.  He  could  marry 
no  woman  ;  of  this  he  had  convinced  himself,  and  as  yet 
the  possibility  of  another  connection  had  not  suggested  it- 


THE   DESCENDANT  75 

self.  He  looked  upon  marriage  as  the  Moloch  to  which 
women  sacrificed  and  by  which  they  were  sacrificed  in  turn. 
That  a  woman  could  be  found  independent  enough  to  hold 
his  views,  or,  holding  them,  courageous  enough  to  live  up  to 
them,  he  had  not  for  an  instant  deemed  possible.  He  held 
confused  and  extreme  theories  concerning  the  sex,  but  of 
practical  knowledge  he  was  devoid. 

And  here,  at  last,  there  was  thrown  in  his  way  — nay, 
thrust  upon  him — a  woman  who  was  both  strong  and  tender, 
who  was  as  natural  as  a  child  and  as  innocent  of  coquetry. 
It  was  a  fresh  experience  —  something  at  once  convincing 
and  distracting,  something  which  caused  a  quickening  of 
his  pulses  and  a  subtle  infusion  of  tenderness  into  his 
heart. 

Going  to  his  office,  he  sat  down  at  the  desk  and  fell  to 
working.  It  was  one  of  his  series  of  articles  upon  marriage 
as  an  institution,  and  he  found  trouble  in  expressing  him 
self  upon  paper.  His  ideas  were  confused,  his  words  un 
suitable. 

"  Social  evolution  proves  to  us,"  he  wrote,  "  that  an  in 
stitution  which  is  advantageous  in  a  primitive  or  militant 
society,  which  is  not  without  utility  in  consolidating  the 
interests  of  men  and  in  protecting  the  weaker  against  the 
encroachments  of  the  stronger,  impedes  like  an  incubus 
the  progress  of  that  society  when  the  society  has  passed 
from  the  militant  to  the  industrial  state,  and—  Pshaw!" 
he  said.  "  Am  I  a  halting  idiot?"  and  he  frowned  and  ran 
his  pen  through  the  lines.  Then  he  began  again. 

"Like  many  a  custom  which  has  begun  as  an  experi 
ment  to  end  as  a  fetich,  the  institution  of  marriage  has  not 
been  without  a  purpose  to  serve  in  the  course  of  social  evo 
lution.  But  customs,  like  garments,  wear  out  and  lose 
their  original  usefulness,  and  like  garments  require  to  be 
discarded  for  a  more  advanced  and  more  suitable  order. 

"  But,  unfortunately,  man  is  less  ready  to  adapt  practices 
to  his  needs  than  he  is  to  adapt  his  needs  to  practices. 
Custom,  not  conscience,  maketh  cowards  of  the  most  of  us. 


76  THE   DESCENDANT 

A  theory  once  implanted  in  the  mind  of  man,  be  it  never  so 
essential  to  progress  in  the  beginning,  in  the  end  is  per 
verted  into  a  fetich,  to  protect  whose  altar  the  blood  of 
human  beings  will  be  sacrificed.  Truths  are  not  the  only 
things  which,  to  quote  Professor  Huxley,  begin  as  heresies 
to  end  as  superstitions.  Along  with  truths  a  good  many 
falsehoods  manage  to  make  a  successful  struggle  for  exist 
ence,  and  if  we  glance  about  the  world  to-day  I  think  we 
shall  find  that,  despite  the  assertions  of  our  forefathers, 
truth  and  falsehood  are  equally  mighty  and  equally  power 
ful  to  prevail. 

"The  majority  of  men  are  as  able  to  do  good  battle 
under  one  banner  as  under  another,  and,  give  them  time, 
are  quite  as  ready  to  swear  that  the  cause  for  which 
they  did  battle  was  the  cause  of  justice.  An  inhabitant  of 
the  Western  world  to-day  can  as  obligingly  swear  to  the 
creed  that  since  '  man  is  the  glory  of  God,  but  woman  the 
glory  of  man,'  man  should  glory  in  the  submission  of  but 
one  woman,  as  a  native  of  China  can  testify  that  according 
to  revelation  and  experience  he  is  persuaded  that  the  more 
glory  the  merrier.  It  depends  not  upon  any  Heaven-sent 
revelation  concerning  the  respective  glory  of  the  two  sexes, 
but —  Pshaw  !  Am  I  writing  a  school-boy's  thesis  ?"  And 
then  he  drew  a  long,  sweeping  line  across  the  page  and 
rose.  "  I'm  all  upset,"  he  said.  "  My  brain's  in  a  muddle. 
Too  many  cigars." 

And  he  went  out  for  a  walk.  Meeting  Driscoll  on  the 
corner,  he  blurted  out  with  the  suddenness  of  a  child  : 

"  Say,  Driscoll,  what  kind  of  creatures  are  women,  any 
way?" 

Driscoll  took  his  arm  and  drew  him  under  the  electric 
light. 

"  Been  drinking,  old  man  ?"  he  inquired.  "  No  ;  hand 
cool,  pulse  not  quite  even,  but  will  do.  Oh,  women ! 
Bless  me,  I  give  it  up.  Ask  another.  They're  one  of  the 
Almighty's  enigmas  for  proving  to  men  that  he  knows 
more  than  they  do.  Oh,  all  women  aren't  alike,  you  know. 


THE    DESCENDANT  77 

There 're  several  patterns.  There's  the  woman  with  brains 
and  the  woman  without — last-named  variety  remarkably 
plentiful.  Then  there's  the  woman  of  good  character  and 
the  woman  of  bad,  and  the  woman  who  is  supposed  to  have 
none  to  speak  of.  There's  the  pretty  woman  and  the  ugly 
woman.  There's  the  woman  that's  worthy  of  God  and  the 
woman  that  the  devil  wouldn't  take  at  a  bargain." 

"  Are — are  they  sensible  and  thoughtful  ?  Are — are  they 
like  men  ?" 

"  They're  trying  to  be,  my  young  innocent.  But  they 
haven't  gotten  that  far  down  yet.  Give  them  time,  though. 
Vice  is  mighty,  you  know — " 

"  Nonsense,  Driscoll,  don't  be  a  fool !  Could  you — did 
you — were  you  ever  in  love  ?" 

»  Could  I  ?— did  I  ?— was  I  ?  Well,  damn  me,  I  could, 
and  I  was,  and  I  did.  I  wasn't  born  wise,  you  know,  Shem. 
I  cultivated  it." 

"You  wouldn't  marry  her  because — " 

"  I'd  have  been  deuced  glad  to.     I  couldn't." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  She  wouldn't.  Bad  taste.  I  agree  with  you.  She 
was  one  of  the  plentiful  type — without  brains,  you  know. 
She  married  a  missionary." 

"Oh!" 

When  next  Michael  saw  Rachel  Gavin  it  was  in  her 
studio.  He  had  gone  between  lights,  when  she  had  just 
pushed  aside  her  easel  and  was  lolling  upon  a  divan  be 
fore  an  open  fire.  He  noticed  that  she  wore  a  gown  that 
was  loose  and  full  and  of  some  dim,  nondescript  shade. 
When  she  lifted  her  arms  the  sleeves  fell  in  soft  folds  back 
upon  the  shoulders.  It  was  a  dressing-gown,  and  she  had 
just  slipped  into  it.  But  Michael  did  not  know.  If  he  had 
seen  her  trailing  it  along  Fifth  Avenue  he  would  have  con 
sidered  it,  had  he  considered  it  at  all,  as  entirely  suitable 
and  appropriate.  He  noticed  how  childlike  and  pliant  her 
figure  was,  and  how  white  her  small  face  with  the  firelight 


78  THE    DESCENDANT 

flickering  over  it.  "  I'll  give  you  some  tea  in  a  moment," 
said  Rachel.  And  she  leaned  forward  to  raise  the  wick  of 
the  tiny  stove.  "  You  may  pass  me  the  cups.  Now  take 
your  choice.  The  pink  one  is  the  prettier,  but  the  gold  one 
holds  more.  Do  you  know,  when  you  knocked  I  thought 
you  were  poor  Madame  Laroque,  who  is  continually  pur 
sued  by  the  fear  of  Frenchmen.  She  lives  on  the  seventh 
floor,  you  know,  and  does  linen  embroidery  for  sale.  Her 
husband  slapped  her  and  ran  away,  and  ever  since  madame 
has  lived  in  hourly  dread  of  his  returning  to  visit  the  scene 
of  his  crime.  She  says  he  only  slapped  her  upon  one  cheek, 
and  she  has  a  presentiment  that  he  will  never  rest  in  his 
grave  until  he  has  come  back  and  slapped  her  upon  the 
other.  Dreadful,  isn't  it  ?  Why,  she  screams  whenever  you 
knock  at  her  door,  and  she  won't  let  you  in  until  you've 
given  the  watchword  'No  Frenchman.'  And,  do  you  know, 
when  you  knocked  I  thought  it  sounded  as  though  you 
were  being  pursued.  Are  you  afraid  of  Frenchmen,  too? 
Oh,  here  is  the  tea.  Beautifully  drawn.  Give  me  your 
cup.  One  lump — only  one,  did  you  say  ?" 

It  was  delightful.  Michael's  glance  dwelt  upon  her  like 
one  enraptured.  She  was  so  frank,  he  thought,  so  natural, 
so  free  from  any  shadow  of  self-consciousness. 

She  sipped  her  tea,  and  then,  setting  the  cup  aside,  leaned 
back  against  the  cushions  of  the  divan  and  threw  her  arms 
above  her  head  with  a  quick,  impulsive  movement.  Her 
gestures  were  all  quick  and  impulsive.  She  was  alive  to  her 
finger-tips,  and  warm  with  the  flow  of  her  rich,  red  blood. 
He  leaned  towards  her,  his  eyes  narrowing. 

"  Do  you  see  this  ?"  she  asked.  "  This  was  sent  me  as 
containing  proof  positive  that  you  were  a  publican,  and  to 
be  detested.  A  correct  young  man  saw  me  talking  to  you 
at  the  Academy,  and  this  is  the  result.  I  read  one  or  two 
of  the  articles.  They  were  delightfully  funny." 

"  Funny  !"  protested  Michael.  "  Abuse  them,  abhor  them, 
destroy  them  if  you  will,  but  don't  laugh  at  them." 

"  Oh,  but  they  are  so  amusingly  in  earnest — and  original, 


THE   DESCENDANT  79 

too.  I  like  originality.  There's  only  one  thing  I  like  bet 
ter,  and  that  is  independence." 

Michael  gave  her  a  quick,  radiating  glance.  He  warmed 
suddenly.  "We've  done  a  good  work,"  he  said.  "The 
circulation  of  our  paper  has  doubled  in  a  year.  At  every 
meeting  of  the  society — there  is  a  society,  you  know,  com 
posed  of  persons  interested  in  the  journal — stockholders, 
journalists,  and  the  like.  Why,  the  meetings  are  most  en 
thusiastic,  or,  as  Driscoll  says,  '  most  foolastic.'  I  have  an 
assistant,  a  young  fellow  who  has  entered  body  and  soul 
into  the  cause.  He  forms  societies  among  the  workmen,  and 
is  the  president  of  dozens  of  committees  for  inquiring  into 
all  sorts  of  abuses.  Oh,  he's  a  great  help.  When  my  time 
is  quite  taken  up  with  the  paper,  he  goes  outside  and  awak 
ens  interest.  He  has  even  started  a  branch  among  women. 
The  Twentieth  Century  Society  it  is  called,  and  it  is  quite 
in  the  heart  of  the  most  advanced  movement  of  the  day." 

He  was  talking  rapidly,  his  face  flushed,  his  eyes  blink 
ing,  his  effulgent  glance  riveted  upon  the  girl. 

The  emphasis  of  his  personality  became  pronounced — a 
terrible  reserve  force  within  his  nature,  forever  salient  and 
forever  illusive.  Some  vague,  intangible  mystery  of  will 
that  asserted  its  dangerous  power  over  man,  woman,  and 
child,  stamping  even  his  objective  environment  with  the 
impress  of  a  mighty  and  impassioned  personality. 

The  girl  leaned  forward,  her  hands  clasped  upon  her 
knees,  her  deep  eyes  casting  their  light  upon  his  face.  She 
was  interested.  She  became  suddenly  conscious  of  the  scin 
tillating  magnetism  of  the  man. 

"But,"  she  said,  "I  don't  quite  understand.  You  aren't 
an  anarchist — that  you  deny.  You  aren't  a  socialist,  for 
you  laugh  at  all  schemes  of  socialism.  Are  you  simply  ad 
vanced  ?  Now,  what  does  it  mean  to  be  advanced  ?  Does 
it  mean  to  be  a  little  ahead  in  wickedness  of  your  fellows  ?" 

Michael  interrupted  her  brusquely. 

"We  do  not  laugh  at  socialism,"  he  explained.  "We 
laugh  at  the  schemes  of  socialism  that  have  been  expound- 


So  THE    DESCENDANT 

ed.  They  have  all  failed  in  the  essential  principle — that  is, 
in  reaching  an  equilibrium  of  moral  restraint  and  moral 
liberty.  Socialism  and  individualism  need  to  coalesce  to 
give  us  the  surest  protection  to  the  rights  of  man  with  the 
widest  personal  liberty.  The  legal  enactments  which  place 
unnatural  and  burdensome  conventions  upon  individuals 
should  be  abolished ;  the  freedom  which  allows  the  few  to 
possess  themselves  of  the  privileges  of  the  many  should  be 
restricted.  What  we  need  is  to  place  a  premium  upon  in 
dividuality,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  protect  the  individual 
by  giving  him  an  opportunity  to  prove  his  capacity  for 
honest  labor  in  the  field  of  his  choice,  to  insure  to  him  the 
fruits  of  his  labor.  We  must  not  allow  the  stronger  in  the 
form  of  a  corporation  to  crush  out  the  weaker  in  the  form 
of  individual  enterprise.  Centralization  and  individualism 
need  to  be  reconciled,  and  can  be — " 

"  And  you  expect  to  do  it,"  said  Rachel,  "  with  one  blow 
of  your  strong  fist  ?  Revolt  is  fruitless." 

"  Revolt  is  the  forerunner  of  all  great  changes,"  said 
Michael.  "  It's  as  much  a  part  of  evolutionary  socialism 
as  the  results  themselves.  The  few  pioneer  and  clear  the 
rubbish  away,  and  then  the  millions  follow,  like  sheep,  in 
their  footsteps." 

"After  having  cursed  the  pioneer,"  added  Rachel,  "and 
most  probably  stoned  him  to  death,  they  make  a  bridge 
with  his  bones  and  pass  over." 

Then  they  fell  to  talking  of  Michael's  work,  of  Michael's 
life,  and  of  Michael  himself.  He  told  her  of  his  childhood, 
and  then,  in  a  haughty,  sensitive  way,  spoke  of  his  birth. 

"  I  was  born  under  an  evil  star,"  he  said,  "  the  only  kind 
of  star  that  is  absolutely  fixed,  and  that  neither  rises  nor  sets. 
I  was  formed  as  a  potter  forms  a  pot,  and  thrown  aside  into 
the  gutter  to  be  kicked  to  pieces  by  strangers.  As  a  child  I 
all  but  lived  in  a  pigsty.  I  tended  the  pigs—  No,  don't  pity 
me.  I  sometimes  look  back  now  with  regret  to  the  long 
days  in  the  pastures,  with  only  space  and  weeds  and  pigs — 

But  Rachel  was  not  pitying  him,     To  a  woman  of  her 


THE    DESCENDANT  8l 

fearless  nature  there  seemed  a  certain  sublimity  in  his  reck 
less  defiance.  It  stirred  and  thrilled  a  responsive  echo  in 
her  own  heart.  All  the  latent  capacity  for  hero-worship, 
that  had  lain  dormant  since  childhood,  awoke  with  intensity. 
She  adored  courage,  and  perhaps  she  found  a  fascination 
in  this  moral  force  that  was  brave  enough  to  scorn  custom, 
conventions — nay,  respectability  itself.  She  looked  up  at 
him  with  a  wide,  comprehensive  glance.  She  saw  all  the 
straight,  manly  length  of  him,  the  heavy  brow,  the  sensitive, 
quivering  mouth.  She  gloried  in  the  defiance,  in  the  daring 
that  made  this  man  able  to  face  her  and  say,  "  I  owe  no 
man  anything — not  even  a  name."  She  did  not  wonder  at 
the  inconsistency  of  his  life ;  did  not  see  that  though  he 
defied  religion,  yet  he  raged  because  his  own  birthright 
had  been  without  benefit  of  clergy  ;  that  though  he  opposed 
marriage,  yet  he  blushed  because  he  himself  had  been  born 
without  the  pale. 

She  was  young  and  impulsive,  and  she  did  not  see  this ; 
if  she  had  seen  it,  could  it  have  saved  her  from  herself? 
Perhaps  not.  And  he  was  sincere  enough,  God  knows. 
He  felt  that  he  had  been  a  victim  to  adverse  circumstances, 
and  so  did  she.  He  believed  that  the  hope  for  future  gen 
erations  lay  in  sweeping  such  possible  injustice  aside,  and 
she — she  did  not  think  of  future  generations  at  all.  She 
thought  only  of  him. 

"  I  have  lived  to  myself,"  said  Michael,  "  and  I  shall  die 
to  myself.  I  have  but  one  friend  in  the  world  —  a  man. 
As  for  women,  granting  that  a  woman  could  find  aught  in 
me  to  love — could  a  woman  brave  public  opinion  as  I  have 
braved  it  ?  Could  a  woman  share  my  principles  and  live 
them  as  I  have  lived  them?  No,  don't  pity  me.  I  tell 
you  I  am  not  to  be  pitied." 

Rachel  looked  up  at  him  as  he  towered  above  her,  alone, 
miserable,  hated,  and  hating.  A  sudden  rush  of  sympathy 
stirred  her  pulses. 

"  I  don't  pity  you,"  she  said.  "  How  dare  you  say  so  ? 
I  honor  you  !" 

6 


82  THE    DESCENDANT 

She  held  out  her  hand.  He  took  it,  and  then  looked 
down  upon  her,  and  his  eyes  softened.  The  hard  look 
died  from  them,  giving  place  to  a  gleam  of  tenderness.  He 
felt  a  swift  desire  to  lean  down  and  touch  the  white  nape 
of  her  neck  upon  which  the  dark  hair  was  coiled.  And 
then  a  swifter  and  keener  desire  to  take  her  in  his  arms — 
very  tenderly,  as  one  takes  a  child — to  feel  the  pressure  of 
her  firm,  reliant  hands.  It  was  an  emotion  quite  new  to 
him,  so  new  that  he  felt  conscious  and  half  alarmed,  fear 
ing  to  have  it  fade  away. 

When  he  had  gone  Rachel  sat  motionless  in  the  flicker 
ing  firelight,  her  chin  resting  upon  her  clasped  hands.  Her 
sympathies  had  been  touched  and  had  responded  with  all 
their  exuberant  force.  She  was  conscious  of  having  been 
called  away  from  her  self-absorption,  of  having  been  be 
trayed  into  reverencing  a  man,  a  man  who  was  leader  and 
pioneer  of  what  the  world  called  a  non-moral  element,  but 
a  man  who  was  strong  enough  to  stand  fearlessly  alone — 
ah,  that  was  a  man  ! 

She  sat  there,  the  firelight  flickering  over  her,  casting  a 
rich  radiance  over  her  dull  gown,  shimmering  in  her  wide 
eyes,  and  falling  like  a  flash  of  light  across  her  broad, 
white  brow.  Her  easel  stood  beside  her.  In  the  corner 
there  was  a  large  unfinished  canvas,  before  which  a  curtain 
hung. 

"It  is  my  great  picture,"  she  had  said  to  Michael — "my 
great  picture,  which  no  one  has  seen,"  and  she  did  not  lift 
the  curtain.  Now  she  rose  and  went  towards  it  and  drew 
the  hangings  aside.  It  was  a  half -finished  Magdalen,  a 
rough  peasant  Magdalen,  with  traces  of  sinful  passion  and 
sinful  suffering  upon  her  face.  A  woman  who,  having  been 
dragged  through  the  mire  and  slime,  forever  carried  the 
stains  upon  her  broken  body.  It  was  a  great  work,  as  she 
had  said,  a  work  which  showed  the  hand  of  genius,  a  hand 
whose  strokes  are  powerful  and  falter  not. 

She  let  the  curtain  fall  and  turned  away. 

"  How  strong  he  is,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  V 

Miss  GAVIN  was  emancipated,  or  believed  herself  to  be, 
which  amounts  to  the  same  thing. 

She  had  once  been  heard  to  remark  that  she  occupied  a 
position  in  the  most  advanced  flank  of  the  New  Woman's 
Crusade. 

"I  don't  deliver  lectures,"  she  said,  "nor  do  I  write 
revolutionary  articles  for  the  Sunday  papers,  but  I  live  the 
views  which  most  of  them  only  express.  They  wish  to  be 
emancipated.  I  am  emancipated.1' 

From  all  of  which  it  may  be  inferred  that  Miss  Gavin 
was  as  ignorant  as  the  most  advanced  of  her  sex.  Like 
them,  she  was  levelling  her  guns  at  shadows  and  making  a 
fierce  onslaught  upon  mere  phantom  foes.  The  dust  of  the 
conflict  was  in  her  eyes,  and  she  was  busily  aiming  her  can 
non  at  the  inoffensive  onlookers,  or  even  the  trees  along 
the  way,  while  she  clasped  her  arch -foe  to  her  mistaken 
breast.  She  had  not  learned  that  the  enemy  of  woman  is 
neither  God,  man,  nor  devil,  but  her  own  heart. 

Some  day,  in  a  far  distant  to-morrow,  when  the  present 
century  is  well  buried  beneath  the  strata  of  the  earth,  when 
the  Quaternary  epoch  is  as  far  down  as  the  Palaeozoic,  and 
our  descendants  are  poking  and  prying  among  our  relics, 
as  we  poke  and  pry  in  search  of  the  Ichthyosauri  and  the 
Pterodactyls,  a  wonderful  change  will  have  occurred  upon 
the  surface  of  the  globe. 

While  the  scientists  of  the  future — mere  motory  forma 
tions  of  brain  matter— are  quarrelling  as  to  the  degree  of 
barbarity  exhibited  in  our  fossils,  a  more  startling  discovery 
will  be  taking  place  above  their  heads. 

For  woman  will  have  turned  upon  her  real  foe,  and  have 


84  THE    DESCENDANT 

rent  the  mask  apart,  and,  lo!  she  will  have  looked  into  the 
face  and  have  seen  her  own. 

From  that  moment  the  victory  will  be  gained.  Men,  man 
ners,  and  morals  will  have  a  rest,  and  only  change  fashion 
in  due  season,  as  is  highly  respectable.  And  woman  will 
have  triumphed. 

But  that  will  be  to-morrow,  and  it  is  of  no  to-morrow  that 
I  write,  but  of  the  nineteenth  century,  somewhere  between 
the  years  of  our  Lord  "  ninety  and  ninety-five."  A  momen 
tous  period  it  is,  unless  I  am  deceived.  A  period  when  we 
stand  with  one  foot  firmly  advanced  into  the  twentieth  cen 
tury  and  our  backs  turned  broadly  upon  the  past.  We  are 
progressing  finely  in  these  days.  The  fashions  of  manners 
and  morals  are  changing  with  much  rapidity.  A  new  form 
of  vice  is  in  vogue,  not  the  old  skilfully  draped  creature  that 
we  of  the  fifties  remember  so  fondly.  Oh  no,  quite  a  bold 
and  audacious  character,  with  no  covering  from  her  sister 
virtue,  and  indeed  with  no  covering  at  all  worth  recording. 
The  good  old  theory  of  our  forefathers  that  vice  was  in  the 
naming  of  it  has  still  a  number  of  adherents ;  but  there  is  a 
new  school  of  morality,  quite  a  popular  one  in  its  day,  and 
carrying  under  its  banner  some  of  the  foremost  names  of 
the  century — Ibsen,  Tolstoi,  M.  Zola,  and  many  others,  who 
hold  that,  being  done  publicly,  it  is  no  longer  vice  but  real 
ism.  However,  that  is  a  distinction  in  terms,  not  a  differ 
ence. 

But  this  is  a  progressive  epoch,  let  him  deny  it  who  will. 
It  dares  speak  audibly  of  facts  which  its  forerunners  did 
not  whisper,  but  expressed,  as  it  were  by  a  pantomime,  acts 
without  words.  Men  grow  callous  to  the  point  of  meeting 
their  wives  in  public,  and  ladies  are  able  to  mention  legs  in 
general  without  the  need  of  smelling-salts.  A  progressive 
period,  dare  you  deny  it  ? 

But  Rachel  thought  herself  emancipated,  and  was  as 
strong  in  her  conviction  as  the  most  of  us,  before  Time  has 
shown  us  our  error. 

She  believed  herself  to  be  emancipated,  and  yet —     She 


THE   DESCENDANT  85 

had  behind  her  a  series  of  grandmothers,  from  the  dear  old 
lady  who  pottered  about  her  plantation  and  was  bullied  by 
her  darkies,  to  Mistress  Eve,  who  pottered  about  Paradise 
and  was  bullied  by  Adam.  Virtuous  women  they  were,  no 
doubt.  As  for  the  old  lady  on  the  plantation,  I  can  stake 
my  word,  if  need,  upon  her  probity,  and  I  do  not  remember 
having  heard  aught  derogatory  to  the  honor  of  Mistress 
Eve.  &The  devil  was  the  only  person  likely  to  inquire  into 
the  matter,  and,  if  he  knew,  he  was  gentleman  enough  to 
keep  quiet. 

With  such  irreproachable  ancestry  Rachel  had  sprung 
full  armed  into  existence,  since  good  repute  is  nine-tenths 
of  morality  and  the  whole  of  respectability.  She  was  over 
shadowed  by  the  virtues  of  those  gentlewomen  who  were 
such  adepts  in  the  kitchen  and  the  nursery.  For  the  space 
of  some  fifty  years  Miss  Gavin's  own  great -grandmother 
was  held  triumphantly  up  before  her  long-suffering  neigh 
bors  as  a  pattern  of  modesty  and  meekness.  Her  husband, 
a  true  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  knee  -  breeches,  lace 
ruffles,  and  all,  to  say  nothing  of  the  sobriety,  was  heard 
to  speak  of  her  as  the  ideal  of  St.  Peter,  a  woman  from 
whose  lips  fell  only  "chaste  conversation,  coupled  with 
fear."  Whether  the  hearing  or  the  patience  of  the  old  gen 
tleman  gave  out  was  never  known,  but  the  benefit  of  the 
chaste  conversation  was  usually  bestowed  upon  the  slaves 
for  want  of  other  audience.  The  gentleman  of  the  old 
school  preferred  to  spend  his  evenings  at  the  Red  Cross 
Tavern,  where  a  lady  was  then  residing  who  is  nameless  in 
polite  society,  and  whose  conversation  was  hardly  held  to 
be  an  example  of  chastity.  But  the  virtuous  old  gentle 
woman  knew  her  duty,  and,  what  is  quite  another  thing,  she 
performed  it  to  the  best  of  her  ability.  When  the  jolly 
gentleman  staggered  home  in  the  wee,  small  hours  of  the 
morning,  very  red  of  face,  very  husky  of  voice,  and  very  re 
volting  altogether,  my  lady  would  be  sitting  beside  her  dis 
taff,  her  powdered  hair  as  unruffled  as  at  noon.  She  met 
him  thus  for  fifty  years  ;  she  greeted  him  with  a  wifely  kiss ; 


86  THE    DESCENDANT 

she  assisted  him  to  bed,  after  mixing  his  night-cap  of  whis 
key  and  water  with  her  own  aristocratic  hands.  Then  she 
said  her  prayers,  and  thanked  the  Lord  that  Satan  had  not 
beguiled  her  from  the  path  of  duty.  Oh,  that  was  a  wife 
worth  having ! 

In  the  natural  course  of  time  her  duty  exhausted  her  and 
she  died.  At  her  funeral  the  sermon  was  preached  from 
the  text : 

"  Who  can  find  a  virtuous  woman  ?  For  her  price  is  far 
above  rubies." 

The  old  gentleman  was  much  affected;  he  lamented  al 
most  as  loudly  as  he  had  done  when  his  dapple  mare  foun 
dered.  It  was  at  least  a  week  before  he  went  to  the  Red 
Cross  Tavern,  and  almost  six  months  before  he  was  able  to 
find  a  woman  virtuous  enough  to  be  worth  her  price.  How 
very  judicious  of  Providence  to  make  virtue  its  own  reward, 
for  it  is  the  only  one  it  ever  gets ! 

But  Miss  Gavin  had  not  inherited  the  character  of  her 
admirable  ancestor.  Had  she  been  in  her  place  she  would 
probably  have  locked  the  jolly  gentleman  out  the  first  time 
he  went  to  the  Red  Cross  Tavern,  and  certainly  she  would 
have  boxed  his  ears  had  he  attempted  to  kiss  her  in  his 
maudlin  humor.  But  Rachel  lived  when  the  nineteenth 
century  was  on  its  last  legs;  she  was  an  embodiment  of 
that  transitional  period  when  new  customs  were  casting  off 
the  garments  of  the  old  and  an  illusive  spirit  of  discontent 
manifested  itself  in  the  nation.  At  that  time  the  firmly  im 
planted  principles  of  to-day  were  but  quickening  before  the 
travail  of  birth,  and  men  were  dissatisfied  with  the  old  with 
out  having  evolved  the  new.  Theories  floated  around,  like 
^bacteria  in  an  infected  atmosphere,  waiting  to  gain  a  para 
sitic  existence  upon  an  unsettled  reason. 

A  restless,  vacillating  period  it  was,  and  Miss  Gavin  was 
an  embodiment  of  the  spirit  of  her  times. 

Mrs.  Algernon  Van  Dam,  a  cousin  of  Miss  Gavin  on  her 
father's  side,  and  on  her  own  account  the  well-to-do  wife  of 
a  well-to-do  banker,  began  a  systematic  patronage  upon 


THE   DESCENDANT  87 

Rachel's  arrival  in  New  York.  Mrs.  Van  Dam  lived  in  a 
very  inconvenient  house  in  a  very  convenient  location  • 
somewhere  on  Fifth  Avenue  it  was,  just  beyond  Fifty-first 
Street.  Mrs.  Van  Dam  had  sent  Miss  Gavin  cards  to  her 
"  at  home  " ;  Miss  Gavin  had  not  gone.  Mrs.  Van  Dam 
had  called ;  Miss  Gavin  had  done  likewise. 

"  My  dearest  child,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Dam,  "you  must  look 
upon  me  quite  as  a  sister,  you  know.  You  are  so  impulsive, 
so  unsophisticated.  Such  naturalness  is  so  refreshing." 
And  the  next  day,  from  her  carriage  window,  Mrs.  Van  Dam 
had  seen  Miss  Gavin  coming  off  the  Bowery  with  a  dirty 
Italian  waif  by  the  hand,  and  she  had  blushed.  An  even 
ing  or  two  later  she  called  and  found  the  unsophisticated 
young  person  going  to  dine  at  a  French  restaurant,  quite 
alone,  and  with  a  crepe  scarf  about  her  head.  There  were 
no  more  cards,  no  more  calls.  Mrs.  Van  Dam  bowed  upon 
the  street,  and  that  was  all. 

Alas  !  poor  Rachel !  Now  Mrs.  Van  Dam  passes  her  and 
does  not  bow,  and  that  is  not  all. 

And  the  Mrs.  Van  Dams  of  society  continue  to  flourish 
as  a  green  bay-tree.  Not  because  they  are  more  virtuous 
than  other  people,  I  beg  to  submit,  but  because  they  appear 
to  be ;  an  imitation,  by-the-bye,  which  has  often  better  re 
sults  than  the  original,  and  is  altogether  more  satisfactory 
to  the  person  engaged. 

For  Mrs.  Van  Dam  goes  smilingly  in  to  dinner  on  the  arm 
of  Bertie  Catchings,  who  supports  Callie  French,  the  ballet- 
dancer,  and  beams  admiringly  upon  old  General  Morehead, 
who  has  broken  the  hearts  and  the  reputations  of  a  dozen 
women  in  his  day,  and  whose  day  will  not  be  over  until  his 
life  is.  But  as  for  Callie  French  herself,  why,  she  blushes  if 
you  call  her  name,  and  the  dozen  victims  of  General  More- 
head  she  passes  in  the  gutter  and  draws  her  skirts  aside. 

And  this  was  the  era  of  the  Woman's  Crusade ! 

As  for  Rachel,  she  forgot  Mrs.  Van  Dam  sooner  than 
that  lady  forgot  her  j  for  she  had  other  things  to  think  of, 


88  THE    DESCENDANT 

and  Mrs.  Van  Dam  had  not,  or  if  she  had  she  did  not  think 
of  them.  Rachel  went  about  her  work  with  steadfast  feet. 
The  world  was  to  her  a  gigantic  machine  by  which  her  suc 
cess  was  ground  out ;  men  and  women  objects  necessary 
to  the  accomplishment  of  that  success. 

She  was  not  St.  Peter's  ideal,  nor  was  she  the  ideal  of 
any  one  else.  She  did  not  believe  that  meekness  and  hu 
mility  were  the  crown  of  womanhood,  and  if  you  had  told 
her  that  "  man  was  made  for  God,  but  woman  for  man," 
very  probably  she  would  have  laughed.  She  was  honest 
and  good-tempered  and  brave,  and  perhaps  very  little  else, 
except  charming,  and  now  and  then  very  nearly  if  not  quite 
beautiful.  She  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  Michael  Akershem 
since  that  evening  in  her  studio.  Several  times  he  had 
dropped  in  about  dusk,  and  she  had  met  him  once  or  twice 
at  dinner  in  the  restaurant  around  the  corner.  On  the 
whole,  she  had  thought  very  little  about  him.  She  was 
working  upon  an  oil  canvas  for  the  March  exhibit,  and,  as 
usual,  her  work  absorbed  her  lesser  interests.  One  even 
ing  she  ran  against  him  on  Twenty-third  Street,  as  she 
came  out  of  a  little  Japanese  shop.  Her  hands  were  filled 
with  bundles,  and  Michael  took  them  from  her,  but  Miss 
Gavin  demurred.  "You  may  carry  this,"  she  said,  "for  it 
has  only  a  cup  towel  in  it ;  and  you  may  carry  this  because 
it  is  marmalade,  and,  if  you  break  it,  you  sha'n't  have  any 
with  your  tea  ever  any  more  ;  but  you  can't  take  this  because 
it  is  a  palette,  and  you'd  be  sure  to  hold  it  awkwardly  and 
let  it  drop.  I  got  it  in  place  of  one  Madame  broke  while 
she  was  cleaning  it.  She  thought  she  heard  her  husband 
coming  up-stairs,  and  she  screamed  and  let  it  fall.  She 
would  be  such  a  very  useful  little  woman  if  she  did  not  have 
that  unfortunate  habit  of  feeling  presentiments.  Anyway, 
I've  warned  her  that  if  he  does  come  back  I  shall  ring  up 
the  police." 

Michael  laughed.  Then  he  looked  down  into  her  mirth 
ful  face — the  dimpling  eyes,  the  sensitive  corners  of  her 
mouth  that  trembled  and  twitched  upward,  and  the  laugh 


THE   DESCENDANT  89 

softened  into  a  smile.     "A  mouse  defying  a  lion,"  he  said ; 
"  a  man  could  crush  you  with  a  blow  of  one  finger." 

"  Perhaps,"  admitted  Miss   Gavin,  "  but  I   hardly  think 
you  will  find  one  foolhardy  enough  to  try  it." 
Then  they  both  laughed  and  walked  homeward. 
"  You  may  come  in,"  said  Rachel,  when  they  had  reached 
the  flat ;  "  I'll  give  you  some  marmalade,  since  you  were 
kind  enough  not  to  drop  the  jar.    Madame  Laroque  is  com 
ing  down,  and  we're  going  to  dine  at  a  little  French  restau 
rant  around  the  corner,  and  be  waited  on  by  a  charming  Irish 
waiter  named  Pat.     Should  you  like  to  dine  with  us  ?" 

Like  !  He  would  have  liked  fire  and  brimstone  at  that 
moment  had  she  been  hospitable  enough  to  offer  it.  He 
went  in,  and  Rachel  made  tea  and  spread  marmalade  upon 
his  bread  for  him,  as  children  do,  and  talked  and  laughed 
and  dimpled  until  he  almost  forgot  that  he  was  an  outcast 
and  at  war  with  the  whole  human  race. 

Then  Madame  Laroque  came  down.  She  was  a  demure 
little  woman  with  pink  cheeks,  and  eyes  that  looked  as 
though  they  had  gotten  very  wide  open  once  and  had  never 
resumed  their  natural  size.  She  rarely  spoke,  and  when 
she  did  it  was  to  say  "  yes "  or  "  no,"  as  the  case  might 
require. 

Presently  Rachel  went  into  her  bedroom,  and  came  out 
with  a  soft  Persian  scarf  thrown  over  her  head  and  around 
her  shoulders.  The  drapery  suited  her  well,  and  Michael 
had  never  seen  her  more  bewitching.  Her  eyes  shone  like 
clouded  stars';  the  little  dimples  beside  them  were  never  at 
rest,  but  came  and  went  and  came  again  like  tiny  ripples , 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  twitched  upward  and  then  lay 
still ;  and  she  laughed,  and  away  they  went,  regardless  of 
regularity.  Every  change  of  thought  passed  in  a  fleeting 
gleam  or  shade  across  her  sensitive  face. 

At  the  restaurant  they  were  waited  upon  by  the  amiable 
Pat.  Michael  sat  opposite  Rachel,  and  between  the  spoon 
fuls  of  her  lukewarm  soup  she  beamed  upon  him,  as  she 
beamed  upon  Madame  Laroque,  with  her  deep,  gray  glance. 


90  THE   DESCENDANT 

There  was  a  feeling  of  peace  and  homeliness  which 
Michael,  buffeted  as  he  had  been  about  the  world,  had 
never  known  before.  He  began  to  doubt  if  he  really  hated 
the  entire  human  race;  surely  he  did  not  hate  one  small 
atom  of  it — that  could  not  be.  He  felt  secure  in  her  pres 
ence  ;  sure  of  a  steadfast  hold  upon  faith  and  strength  ; 
sure,  too,  of  a  quick  responsive  sympathy  —  a  sympathy 
which  rained  upon  him  from  beautiful,  deep-set  eyes. 

He  was  conscious  of  an  illusive  sense  of  exaltation — 
something  indefinable  and  indefinite,  and  yet  something 
which  seemed  to  lift  him  above  material  phenomena.  He 
did  not  seek  to  analyze  the  sensation ;  he  did  not  recognize 
the  symptoms,  as  one  accustomed  to  the  malady  of  love 
would  have  done.  He  only  knew  that  he  was  glad  to  be  with 
this  one  woman,  to  say  nothing  of  Madame  Laroque,  and 
that  she  possessed  an  all-pervading  charm  of  personality. 

Rachel  was  in  high  good-humor;  she  laughed  and  spar 
kled  with  an  effervescent  flow  of  mirth. 

"  I  have  dined  here  twenty-four  times  within  the  last 
month,"  she  said.  "  It  is  delightful  unless  the  cook  is  in  a 
bad  humor  If  he  is,  he  refuses  to  give  one  anything  save 
his  own  selections.  Why,  once  he  was  so  provoking.  I 
ordered  bouillon,  and  Pat  came  back  and  said  the  cook 
wouldn't  let  him  have  any,  Then  I  ordered  birds,  and  the 
cook  actually  sent  me  word  that  he  wasn't  going  to  broil 
any  birds,  but  that  I  might  have  chops.  I  detest  chops; 
so  I  said,  'Pat,  show  me  the  kitchen/  an.d  Pat  left  me  at 
the  door,  and  just  as  I  opened  it  the  old  scalawag  heaved 
a  soup  tureen  at  my  head.  I  caught  it  on  the  fly,  and  when 
he  saw  me  he  almost  had  a  fit.  I  declare  I  never  saw  any 
one  grow  so  purple  in  the  face  except  my  little  Italian 
model  when  he  swallowed  a  wax  plum  by  mistake.  But  the 
cook  begged  my  pardon  and  gave  me  some  bouillon,  and 
all  ended  happily." 

"  Yes  !"  said  Madame  Laroque.  Madame  was  a  charm 
ing  person.  When  one  says  "yes  "  when  you  expect  it,  and 
"  no  "  when  you  expect  it,  what  more  can  mortal  man  desire  ? 


THE   DESCENDANT  9I 

"I  didn't  like  his  mayonnaise,"  continued  Rachel,  "so  I 
gave  him  my  own  recipe,  and  he  makes  it  deliciously,  doesn't 
he  ?" 

"  Deliciously  !"  said  Michael,  who  loathed  it. 

"Yes,"  said  Madame,  who  loved  it. 

Rachel  talked,  Michael  looked  at  her,  and  Madame  La- 
roque  ate  her  dinner,  which  proves  her  to  have  been  a  sen 
sible  woman.  But  Madame  had  weighed  love  and  her 
Frenchman  in  the  balance,  and  had  found  both  wanting. 
When  one  finds  sentiment  worthless,  one  turns  to  food,  and 
probably  is  consoled. 

They  drank  their  coffee  and  left,  and  Michael  walked 
home  with  them,  saying  good-night  before  Rachel's  door. 

As  he  took  her  cool,  frank  hand  in  his  an  electric  current 
seemed  to  start  from  his  finger-tips,  darting  through  his 
veins  to  his  heart.  He  watched  her  loosen  the  Persian 
scarf  and  let  it  fall  back  upon  her  shoulders,  showing  the 
white  curves  of  her  throat.  He  bent  his  gaze  upon  her, 
looking  down  into  her  upturned  face.  A  massive  con 
sciousness  of  unworthiness  oppressed  him  ;  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  far,  immeasurably  far,  beyond  him. 

"Good-night,"  he  said;  "think  well  of  me."  And  he 
dropped  her  hand  and  turned  away.  Rachel  went  into  her 
studio  and  talked  to  Madame  Laroque  about  Frenchmen 
for  an  hour.  She  hadn't  any  opinion  upon  the  subject,  but 
as  it  was  the  only  one  upon  which  Madame  had  any,  they 
were  compelled  to  recourse  to  it.  Then  Madame  went  to 
bed,  and  Rachel  found  the  papers  Michael  had  left  a  week 
ago  and  read  them  very  carefully ;  after  which  she  let  down 
her  fine  dark  hair,  and  sat  before  the  fire  brushing  it  until 
it  glowed  from  the  friction. 

She  felt  peaceful  and  happy.  As  yet  no  electric  thrills 
had  broken  the  calm  serenity  of  her  pulse,  no  tumult  of 
any  kind  disturbed  her  frank  good  -  humor.  With  each 
long,  firm  stroke  of  the  brush  she  was  soothed  into  drow 
siness.  "  I  am  so  sleepy,"  she  said,  presently,  speaking 
softly  to  herself.  Then,  before  going  to  bed,  she  crossed 


92  THE    DESCENDANT 

the  room  in  her  bare  feet  to  where  the  unfinished  canvas  of 
the  Magdalen  stood,  strong  and  awful  behind  the  heavy  cur 
tain.  Very  white  and  slim  in  her  nightgown,  Rachel  stood 
before  it,  lifting  the  hangings  as  she  looked  at  it  in  the  dim 
firelight.  The  painted  woman  seemed  to  quicken  and  come 
to  life,  to  look  back  at  the  living  woman  with  a  great  fore 
warning  in  her  awful  eyes. 

But  Rachel  only  saw  in  it  the  work  of  her  own  strong 
hands — her  great  work. 

"  Let  me  finish  it,  O  God  !"  she  prayed.  "  Let  me  make 
of  it  a  great,  great  thing.  Give  me  this,  and  I  will  ask 
nothing  else  my  whole  life  long ;  but,  O  God !  God  !  give 
me  this !" 

She  knelt  down  upon  the  floor,  clasping  her  hands  like  a 
child,  her  face  wrapt  and  white,  the  dark  plait  winding  like 
a  serpent  along  her  gown. 

"Give  me  my  ambition,"  she  prayed,  "and  nothing  else 
— nothing  else,  O  God  !" 

Then  she  rose  from  her  knees  and  went  to  her  bed  in 
the  adjoining  room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

UPON  New-year's  Day  Michael  took  a  holiday.  It  was 
his  first  holiday,  and  he  found  some  difficulty  in  deciding 
what  to  do  with  it;  before  it  was  an  hour  old  it  had  de 
veloped  into  a  white  elephant  upon  his  hands. 

In  the  morning  he  awoke  with  a  definite  intention  of  en 
joying  himself  and  an  indefinite  idea  as  to  what  manner 
of  enjoyment  it  should  be.  Then,  in  a  nebulous  obscurity, 
his  thoughts  gathered  about  a  shining  centre,  and  the  centre 
was  Rachel  Gavin.  An  indeterminate  impulse  prompted 
"lim  at  once  to  seek  and  to  shun  her  presence.  Against 
nis  judgment  he  desired  her,  but  the  desire  was  no  less 
urgent  because  unauthorized.  The  tide  of  his  undisci 
plined  nature  strained  towards  her  as  though  impelled  by 
some  magnetic  attraction.  The  illusive  subtlety  of  person 
ality  fascinated  as  it  enthralled  him  ;  the  feminine  quality 
had  fallen  over  him  as  a  spell. 

He  arose  early,  rendered  restless  by  his  mental  turmoil. 
The  room  stifled  him,  and  he  descended  to  the  sidewalk 
and  wandered  for  hours  in  a  drifting  snow.  He  entered  a 
florist's — cautiously,  as  a  thief  might — and  emerged  bearing 
a  paper  box  containing  violets.  With  the  violets  under  his 
arm  he  returned  to  his  room  and  set  about  making  his  toi 
let,  an  operation  of  some  length,  consequent  upon  an  un 
usual  decision.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  wilfully 
resolved  to  sacrifice  comfort  to  adornment,  and  it  was  with 
a  fluctuating  sense  of  self-respect  that  he  discarded  his 
flannel  blouse. 

Then,  hearing  Driscoll's  step  upon  the  landing,  he  hid 
the  violets  under  the  bed  and  began  sorting  a  pile  of 
cravats. 


94  THE   DESCENDANT 

"  Happy  New-year  !"  began  Driscoll  as  he  entered  ;  after 
which  he  gave  vent  to  a  prolonged  whistle.  "  Ye  gods !" 
he  exclaimed,  "behold  the  mould  of  fashion." 

Michael  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "  It  strikes 
me,"  he  returned,  stiffly,  "  that  I  have  on  just  about  what 
you  have." 

"  But  I  am  numbered  among  the  Philistines." 

The  flush  passed  from  Michael's  face;  he  threw  back 
his  head  impatiently.  "  I  don't  see  that  a  boiled  shirt  affects 
my  principles,"  he  protested. 

Driscoll  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  his  habitual  loose- 
jointed  movement,  which  reminded  one  of  an  automatic 
supple  jack.  "  Vanity,  thy  name  is  man,"  he  observed,  re 
proachfully.  Then,  a  sudden  suspicion  seizing  him,  he 
wheeled  round  with  a  jerk.  "Why,  bless  me,  if  you  aren't 
using  cologne  !"  he  said,  with  disgust ;  "  or  is  it  powder  ?" 

Frowning  heavily,  Michael  tossed  the  cravats  upon  the 
bed,  managing  at  the  same  time  to  administer  a  vicious 
kick  to  the  violets. 

"  Don't  be  any  more  of  an  ass  than  you're  obliged  to  be," 
he  retorted,  angrily. 

Driscoll  seated  himself  upon  the  bed,  humming  a  comic 
song  between  half-closed  lips.  With  unabated  good-humor 
he  watched  Michael  tie  a  four-in-hand  cravat. 

"  Pleasant  day,"  he  observed,  finally. 

"  Deuced,"  responded  Michael,  without  turning  his  eyes. 

With  shrill  amiability  Driscoll  finished  the  song,  com 
menced  another,  broke  off,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room.  Then  he  seated  himself  and  gave  way  to  his  fore 
bodings. 

"It's — it's  not  a  woman?"  he  remonstrated. 

"No,  it  is  not,"  returned  Akershem,  with  severity. 

"  Then,  let  it  be  what  it  may,  there's  a  chance  of  salva 
tion." 

Michael  surveyed  him  for  a  moment  in  silence.  "  I  don't 
see  why  you  object  to  women,"  he  remarked;  "they  are 
good  enough  in  their  proper  places." 


THE    DESCENDANT  95 

"  Which  is  usually  the  last  place  in  which  you  find  them. 
But  I  don't  object  to  women,  my  dear  Shem ;  I  object  to 
them  in  connection  with  yourself.  A  substance  may  be  all 
right  in  a  free  state  and  the  deuce  in  combination.  Every 
thing  is  in  the  mixing,  you  know." 

Michael  brushed  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  impatiently.  "I 
suppose  it  depends  upon  the  woman,"  he  observed  at  last. 

"  And  the  man,"  added  Driscoll.  "  As  for  that,  every 
thing  has  its  uses;  marriage  is  an  institution  admirably 
adapted  to  fools." 

"  I  wasn't  speaking  of  marriage." 

"  Oh,  you  weren't,  weren't  you  ?  When  a  man  begins 
talking  of  women  the  subject  of  matrimony  isn't  far  off." 

Michael  was  silent,  determination  settling  upon  his  face. 
When  next  he  spoke  it  was  with  a  metallic  ring  of  decision. 

"  I  can't  go  with  you  to-day,"  he  said.  "  I've  other  plans 
on  hand." 

Driscoll  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  have  mysteries," 
he  remarked.  "  Mysteries  are  always  immoral."  Then  he 
sighed.  "  Shem  is  no  longer  innocent." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  Shem.  Innocence  is  milk-and- 
water  ignorance." 

"  Exactly.  I've  often  wondered  why  the  students  of  the 
tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  were  always  so  pro 
ficient  in  the  latter  branch.  It's  because  if  one  learns  any 
thing  it  must  be  vice ;  virtue  is  merely  the  passive  state. 
Oh,  the  ignorant  are  the  innocent,  the  simple  are  the 
saintly." 

"  Which  argues  you  a  Solomon." 

"  By  no  means.  With  me  evil  is  an  intuition,  with  you  an 
acquirement.  I  have  not  lost  my  innocence  because  I  have 
none  to  lose.  As  for  you,  alas ! — 

"  Don't  be  an  infernal  drivel  of  a  fool !" 

"  Strong  language,  that ;  but  to  the  point.  Oh,  my  dear 
Shem,  yours  is  the  assurance  of  youth.  In  time  you'll  learn 
that  vice  palls  upon  the  taste  no  less  than  virtue.  One 
should  follow  neither  the  broad  road  that  leads  tq  gout,  nor 


96  THE    DESCENDANT 

the  narrow  one  that  leads  to  nothing;  there  are  many  by 
paths  connecting  the  two." 

"  Philosophic  utterances  inspired  by  my  descent  down 
ward,"  commented  Michael,  dryly. 

"  I  weep  for  your  native  innocence."  Then  Driscoll  rose, 
shook  himself,  and  departed.  "  I'm  not  wanted,"  he  de 
clared,  plaintively,  as  a  parting  shot.  "  The  light  of  my 
righteous  countenance  is  a  reproach.  I  leave  you  to  your 
base  intentions." 

When  he  had  gone  Michael  threw  open  the  window  and 
stood  looking  across  the  rows  of  blackened  chimney-pots. 
A  little  heap  of  snow  lay  upon  the  sill,  and  he  bent  down 
and  blew  it  out  into  space.  A  breath  of  intense  cold 
passed  across  his  face,  and,  looking  downward,  he  saw  the 
frozen  streets  gleaming  like  silver  in  the  morning  light. 

He  turned  away,  took  up  his  hat,  stooped  to  draw  the 
violets  from  their  hiding-place,  and  passed  out,  slamming 
the  door  after  him.  Upon  the  threshold  of  Rachel's  studio 
he  placed  the  box  and  stole  quietly  away.  Reaching  the 
ground-floor,  he  sought  out  a  severe-looking  waiter.  "  Has 
every  one  at  your  table  breakfasted,  Samuel  ?"  he  inquired. 
Samuel  replied  that  they  had — leastways,  everybody  except 
the  fat  gentleman  with  the  puffy  face,  who  didn't  count. 

"  And  Miss  Gavin  ?     Did  she  go  out  afterwards  ?" 

No,  Miss  Gavin  had  not  gone  out  afterwards  ;  he  thought 
she  had  returned  to  her  room. 

Michael  got  into  the  elevator,  rode  to  the  fifth  landing, 
and  got  out ;  after  which  he  got  in  again  and  rode  down. 
This  operation  he  repeated  six  times,  to  the  speechless  in 
dignation  of  the  elevator  boy,  a  proper-minded  youth  with 
principles,  and  the  strongest  of  whose  principles  related  to 
the  culpability  of  making  unnecessary  exertions.  Michael 
felt  the  indignation  and  winced  beneath  it.  Then  he 
blushed  at  the  possibility  of  Driscoll's  catching  sight  of 
him.  This  contingency  caused  him  to  alight  suddenly  as 
he  descended  the  sixth  time  and  retire  into  a  shadow  at  a 
little  distance. 


THE   DESCENDANT  97 

Here  he  remained  until  the  tinkle  of  a  bell  sounded  from 
above,  and  away  shot  the  elevator  to  the  fifth  landing. 
Upon  its  downward  course  he  caught  sight  of  the  toe  of  a 
rubber  boot  and  the  hem  of  a  cloth  skirt,  and  his  heart 
leaped  within  him.  Then,  as  she  alighted,  he  hastened 
forward. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  he  said. 

"  Indeed  !"  Her  eyes  narrowed.  "  Oh,  dear,"  she  smiled, 
"we're  becoming  quite  civilized." 

"  I  am  not,"  he  retorted,  angrily. 

"I  was  merely  alluding  to  external  indications." 

She  wore  a  trim  little  coat  of  brown  cloth,  with  a  fur 
tippet  about  her  throat,  and  in  her  hand  carried  a  large 
muff.  He  noticed  that  she  wore  his  violets,  but  she  did 
not  allude  to  them,  nor  did  he.  Her  hat  cast  a  slight  shadow 
across  her  forehead,  and  the  same  shadow  seemed  reflected 
in  her  eyes. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,"  he  repeated. 

"  Really  ?"  The  dimples  beside  her  eyes  ran  riot,  her 
mouth  twitched.  "  I  thought  you  had  developed  a  mania 
for  riding  in  the  elevator,"  she  said. 

"  Did  yo-u  see  me  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"  I  feared  that  I  might  miss  you.  I  have  been  lying  in 
wait  for  an  hour." 

"  In  wait !  and  the  prey  ?" 

"  You  were  the  prey." 

"  How  exciting !" 

She  threw  back  her  head,  and  the  shadow  passed  from 
her  forehead.  Her  eyes  grew  dark.  An  atmosphere  of 
illusiveness  hovered  about  her.  He  could  not  comprehend 
her,  and  in  that  lay  her  charm.  Her  sweetness,  her  mirth, 
her  audacity  were  so  evanescent  that  before  he  closed  upon 
a  mood  it  escaped  him. 

"  And  what  do  you  want  ?" 

The  desire  for  mastery  waxed  strong  within  him. 

"  I  want  you,"  he  retorted,  boldly. 

7 


9$  THE    DESCENDANT 

"Oh,  mortal,  thy  demand  is  insatiable!"  The  ring  of 
bravado  in  her  tones  angered  him  j  his  will  smarted  from 
the  friction. 

"  Let  me  go  with  you  to-day,"  he  said.  The  words  were 
pleading,  but  his  manner  masterful.  "Show  me  how  to 
have  a  holiday." 

She  rebelled.  "  I  am  going  to  see  Dupont,  and  you  can't 
go  there." 

"And  then?" 

"To  the  Metropolitan  Museum.  I  spend  every  New- 
year's  Day  at  the  Metropolitan." 

"  Take  me.     I  have  never  been." 

"  Heathen  !" 

"Take  me." 

She  laughed  good-naturedly.  Unconsciously  her  hand 
wandered  to  the  violets  upon  her  breast.  He  noticed  that 
the  hand  was  white  and  strong,  with  ringers  cut  square  at 
the  tips ;  not  a  beautiful  hand  in  itself,  but  beautiful  in  the 
delicacy  of  its  touch.  A  hand  with  the  power  of  a  man 
and  the  lightness  of  a  woman.  "Very  well,"  she  said,  as 
yielding  from  sheer  amiability,  "as  you  please.  Meet 
me  at  the  Museum  at  one.  I  must  hurry."  Nodding 
gayly,  she  ran  down  the  steps  and  out  into  the  street. 
Here  her  pace  slackened,  and  she  gingerly  picked  her  way 
along  the  slippery  sidewalk.  The  cold  brought  a  swift 
color  to  her  cheeks,  in  her  furs  she  looked  like  a  ruddy 
incarnation  of  warmth. 

Some  hours  later  she  stood  upon  the  corner  of  Four 
teenth  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue  awaiting  the  stage.  As  it 
passed  she  hailed  it  and  got  in  so  hastily  that  she  was  pre 
cipitated  into  the  arms  of  a  stout  gentleman,  who  ex 
claimed  "  Dear  me !"  in  an  irritated  aside,  after  depositing 
her  upon  the  seat  beside  him.  Then  he  glanced  at  her,  and 
the  irritation  vanished  as  he  offered  to  pass  her  fare.  As 
the  stage  jolted  along  it  seemed  to  jolt  her  thoughts  into  a 
confused  jumble  of  unassorted  ideas.  Since  morning  her 
mind  had  stubbornly  confronted  Michael  Akershem,  her 


THE    DESCENDANT  99 

will  as  stubbornly  kept  him  at  bay.  Some  dominant,  mag 
netic  force  attracted  even  as  it  repelled  her.  So  powerful 
it  was  that  it  seemed  to  compel  rather  than  allure ;  the 
force  of  a  Wallenstein  that  beat  his  followers  to  his  banner. 
In  a  woman  less  self-sufficient  than  Rachel  the  strength 
of  the  man  might  have  inspired  an  aversion  purely  femi 
nine  ;  but  to  Rachel  there  was  a  glorious  suggestion  of  mas 
tery  that  quickened  her  to  combat.  A  nature  as  indepen 
dent  as  her  own  must  subdue  before  a  weaker  one  could 
gain  the  power  to  attract.  It  was  the  power  that  she  wor 
shipped,  and  power  there  was  and  to  spare  in  Michael 
Akershem. 

In  her  abstraction  she  allowed  herself  to  be  carried  a 
block  beyond  her  destination,  and  her  walk  across  the 
park  was  considerably  lengthened  thereby.  Beyond  the 
enclosed  streets  the  temperature  seemed  to  fall  twenty  de 
grees.  The  cold  was  so  penetrating  that  her  blood  was 
quickened  to  rapid  action,  and  the  air,  entering  her  lungs, 
caused  her  a  sharp  physical  pain.  She  passed  from  a  walk 
into  a  run,  and  sped  lightly  along  the  avenue. 

About  her  the  snow  lay  in  an  immaculate  carpet,  untar 
nished  by  the  soot  of  the  city.  From  the  trees  icicles  hung 
like  diamond  pendants,  and  the  slender  branches  cast  long^ 
purple-toned  shadows  upon  the  untrodden  ground. 

Into  the  hall  Rachel  darted  with  breathless  haste.  At 
the  far  end  Michael  was  leaning  against  a  pillar.  As  he 
saw  her  the  light  fell  across  his  face  like  the  falling  of  a 
sunbeam.  He  smiled  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  It  is  so  cold  r  wailed  Rachel.  "  My  poor  nose  !  It  is 
frozen.  1  know  it  is  frozen  !" 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully.  Upon  her  lashes  a  tear 
trembled,  and  it  sparkled  beneath  the  brightness  of  her 
glance  like  a  drop  of  sunshine. 

Michael  eyed  her  critically. 

"I  don't  think  it  is  frozen,"  he  answered,  seriously,  "be 
cause  it  is  pink.  When  it  freezes  it  turns  blue.  I  know, 
because  our  office  boy  got  his  frost-bitten  last  week." 


lOO  THE   DESCENDANT 

She  laughed  until  the  tear-drops  melted  and  rained  down. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  cried,  "what  consolation!  Not  blue, 
but  pink.  There  is  salvation  in  the  shade."  And  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  muff. 

They  crossed  the  hall,  and  he  drew  her  over  a  register. 
Then  she  seated  herself  upon  a  bench  with  her  back  to  the 
mummy  of  an  Egyptian  lady.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  de 
vouring  earnestness.  From  beneath  the  brim  of  her  hat 
her  hair  fell  in  dark  curves,  and  about  her  throat  the  soft 
fur  rose  until  it  rested  against  her  cheek.  She  asked  him 
if  he  had  waited  long,  and  he  answered,  "Not  long — at 
least,  it  didn't  seem  so." 

"  You  had  pleasant  thoughts  ?" 

"Very.     My  stock  has  risen." 

"  I  could  have  come  sooner,"  she  observed;  "but  it's  just 
as  well  that  I  didn't,  you  were  so  charmingly  engaged." 

The  spirit  of  mischief  quickened  within  her.  She  smiled 
upon  him,  he  frowned  upon  her. 

"  Why  do  you  treat  me  so  ?"  he  asked.  "  You  seem  al 
ways  laughing  at  me." 

"  It's  a  pity  you  have  no  sense  of  humor.  You  would 
find  yourself  so  diverting." 

His  face  grew  blacker. 

"  I  don't  like  it !"  he  exclaimed.     "  Stop." 

She  rose  and  gave  herself  a  little  shake.  "  Come,"  she 
said,  "  I  will  take  you  to  my  shrine." 

They  mounted  the  stairs,  and  she  showed  him  her  favorite 
paintings,  laughing  good-naturedly  at  his  ignorance. 

"  Some  day,"  she  said,  "you  shall  give  me  a  sitting.  I'll 
paint  you  in  yellow  ochre  with  a  crown  of  withered  leaves. 
It  would  make  a  fine  subject  for '  Melancholia.'  "  Then  she 
led  him  through  a  doorway,  crying,  "  Shut  your  eyes  !"  He 
obeyed,  and  she  drew  him  forward  a  few  feet.  "  Look !" 
she  said ;  and  he  looked,  and  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the 
"Joan  of  Arc."  "It  is  my  gospel,"  she  said.  "I  would 
like  to  keep  an  altar -lamp  burning  before  it,  and  to  say 
prayers  morning  and  night." 


THE    DESCENDANT  lot 

"  It — it  looks  a  little  eccentric,"  he  remarked,  from  the 
depths  of  his  ignorance. 

"  For  shame,  blasphemer  !"  Then  she  gave  a  little  cry  and 
fell  behind  him.  "  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !  There's  a  wretch 
coming  to  copy.  Run  !  I  wouldn't  see  his  canvas  for  worlds. 
It's  a  sacrilege  !"  She  fled  precipitately,  he  following.  They 
sat  down,  and  she  gave  him  her  muff  to  hold.  It  was  so 
soft  and  fluffy  and  warm  that  he  felt  as  though  he  were 
holding  a  part  of  herself.  He  turned  his  nervous  gaze  upon 
her  face ;  the  light  of  his  eyes  mellowed  and  grew  tender. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  began,  and  paused  and  began  again — 
"  do  you  know  that  you  are  the  only  woman  I  have  ever 
known  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,  but  weren't  you  brought  up  by  the  hand  of 
Mrs.  Watkins  ?" 

"  She  was  a  fiend." 

"  Shade  of  Mrs.  Watkins,  arise !"  exclaimed  Rachel. 
.     "  I  hated  women,"  he  continued,  "  until  I  met  you." 

"  Your  limited  experience  destroys  the  compliment." 

"  If  I  had  known  thousands,"  he  retorted,  angrily,  "  it 
would  have  made  no  difference.  I  should  have  hated  them 
all — except  you." 

"  You  are  very  amiable." 

He  turned  upon  her  in  a  blaze  of  wrath.  "  How  dare 
you  ?"  he  demanded — "  how  dare  you  treat  me  so  ?" 

She  paled  slightly  beneath  his  passionate  gaze  and  her 
lashes  trembled.  Then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  and  the 
light  in  them  blinded  him. 

"  I  will  conquer  you  yet,"  he  said,  the  desire  for  mastery 
surging  within  him. 

"  Oh,  young  Alexander  !"  she  retorted,  defiantly,  "  is  not 
the  world  enough  ?  Do  you  sigh  for  the  impossible  ?" 

"The  impossible?"  he  emphasized. 

"The  impossible,"  her  eyes  laughed. 

Then  she  stood  up  and  turned  to  beam  upon  him.  "  There 
is  such  a  thing  as  luncheon,"  she  suggested.  "And  see 
how  we  shock  that  prim  lady  in  spectacles." 


102  THE    DESCENDANT 

He  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  What  does  it  mat 
ter?"  he  returned.  "But  are  you  hungry?" 

"  Starving." 

They  descended  to  the  basement,  and  ate  their  omelet 
beneath  an  appetizing  study  of  John  the  Baptist's  head  re 
posing  upon  an  unwieldy  trencher. 

"  There  is  nothing  quite  so  satisfying  as  food,"  remarked 
Rachel,  radiantly,  as  she  sipped  her  tea. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  get  so  hungry,"  retorted 
Michael.  "  I  forget  all  about  food  when  I  am  happy,  but 
you  don't  seem  to." 

"  Never !" — she  applied  herself  to  her  omelet  with  re 
newed  zeal — "  constancy  is  my  one  virtue." 

But  Michael  had  grown  serious,  and  when,  a  little  later, 
they  returned  to  the  gallery,  he  fell  back  upon  the  old  sub 
ject.  "  You  are  a  puzzle  to  me,"  he  said — "  a  surprise  puz 
zle  of  which  one  can  never  be  quite  sure.  You  are  tanta 
lizing." 

"  Am  I  ?"  she  smiled. 

"You  are  independent — so  terribly  independent." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  assented. 

"  Is  it  always  so  ?"  he  asked.  "  Do  you  never  feel  the 
need  of  something  else — of  love  ?" 

"  Why,  I  have  so  much  of  it.  I  assure  you,  I  adore  my 
self." 

"  Not  that !  not  that !"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  but — well— but 
love  ?" 

"There  are  many  varieties.  I  suppose  you  mean  the 
matrimonially  inclined  ?" 

He  nodded. 

"  Well,  I  never  feel  the  need  of  it." 

"  Never  ?" 

"  Never ;  do  you  ?"  She  laughed  into  his  eyes.  Her 
audacity  exasperated  him. 

"  How  provoking  you  are !"  he  said. 

She  rose,  fastened  her  coat,  and  held  out  her  hand  for 
her  muff, 


THE    DESCENDANT  1O$ 

"I  have  wasted  an  afternoon  upon  you,"  she  said,  "un 
grateful  creature." 

"  I  am  not  ungrateful — I — "  he  reached  out  his  hand  and 
touched  hers  as  it  lay  upon  the  back  of  the  bench.  She 
did  not  withdraw  it,  and  his  eyes  grew  gentle.  A  person 
with  a  catalogue  sauntered  by  and  surveyed  them  disap 
provingly. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  seen  a  danger- 
signal  and  I  did  not  heed  it?" 

"Indeed!" 

His  eyes  glimmered  between  his  twitching  lids  like  burn 
ing  coals.  She  felt  his  gaze  upon  her  and  shifted  uneasily. 

"  And  I  would  not  heed  it,"  he  continued,  hotly,  "though 
I  were  rushing  to  hell." 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  her  abhorrence  of  a  vacuum,  Nature,  for  the  further 
ance  of  her  favorite  hobby,  has  often  to  resort  to  strange 
devices.  If  she  could  but  understand  that  vacuity  is  some 
times  better  than  superfluity ! 

In  the  making  of  Michael  Akershem,  she  had  been  lavish 
of  expenditure ;  there  was  much  in  his  composition  that 
might  have  been  safely  dispensed  with,  leaving  society  and 
himself  none  the  worse.  • 

The  mental  energy  confined  within  the  storehouse  of  his 
brain  was  in  a  continual  state  of  ebullition,  escaping  in 
magnetic  currents  through  the  will  or  the  senses,  as  the 
case  might  be. 

This  fund  of  nervous  power,  forever  transforming  yet 
never  at  rest,  fed,  as  it  were,  upon  his  physical  constitution, 
demanding  always  some  extraneous  force  upon  which  to 
expend  itself. 

A  cross  between  a  civilized  and  an  uncivilized  nature,  a 
strangely  complex  organism,  had  been  the  result ,  a  primi 
tive  revolt  from  restraint  and  disregard  of  consequences, 
and  yet  a  half-refined  sensitiveness  to  the  force  of  the  con 
sequences  when  they  appeared  to  overwhelm  him.  Be 
neath  all  his  blatant,  loud-voiced  clamor  against  custom 
perhaps  there  existed  a  shade  of  regret  (inherited  from  the 
father  who  had  sinned  in  secret  and  suffered  not)  that  re 
spectability,  which  he  appeared  to  scorn,  had  scorned  him 
in  reality.  The  scoffing  may  have  been  the  revenge  of  the 
worm  that  stings  the  heel  which  treads  it  down,  but  that 
left  at  peace  in  the  mire  might  have  entertained  quite  a 
reverence  for  the  oppressor  of  its  fellows. 

Having  been  impelled  in  a  given  direction,  he  had  on  the 


THE   DESCENDANT  105 

rebound  gone  somewhat  beyond  the  normal  standard.  In 
time,  would  the  reactionary  force  become  exhausted  and 
the  organism  return  to  its  allotted  sphere  ?  Who  could 
say? 

As  yet  there  was  more  profundity  than  latitude  in  his 
nature — more  intensity  than  endurance.  The  habits  of  his 
life  had  developed  an  almost  abnormal  fund  of  egoism, 
causing  him  to  consider  every  detail  of  existence  from  a 
relative  standpoint.  But  for  all  that,  he  was  sincere  and 
earnest  enough  ;  narrow,  it  may  be,  and  strongly  intolerant, 
but  the  intolerance  itself  was  but  the  offshoot  of  an  intense 
vitality.  Swift,  eccentric,  forever  seeking  satisfaction  and 
never  rinding  it,  in  his  nature  the  ethereal  element  was  not 
wanting ;  he  was  mind,  as  it  were,  without  spirit,  intellect 
without  soul.  Until  meeting  Rachel  Gavin  he  had  enter 
tained  settled  convictions,  principles  he  called  them,  con 
cerning  his  individual  relation  to  the  race.  A  twentieth- 
century  moralist  could  hold  no  more  stoical  doctrines  re 
garding  the  essence  and  quintessence  of  love.  A  month 
ago  he  would  have  sworn  to  them  before  any  jury  in  the 
State,  and  now,  all  unconsciously  to  himself,  they  were  melt 
ing  like  the  shadows  of  dawn  before  the  sunrise. 

One  evening,  a  windy  evening  in  March,  he  stood  with 
Rachel  in  her  studio.  He  had  brought  her  some  books, 
and  she  was  idly  running  the  leaves  through  her  fingers  as 
she  talked.  The  gray  light  came  softly  in  and  fell  over  her, 
lending  to  the  white  outline  of  her  face  a  sombreness  akin 
to  the  wind-swept  sky  without. 

"  How  ignorant  I  am,  after  all,"  said  Rachel — "  I  mean, 
how  ignorant  I  am  about  real  things  :  science  and  facts  and 
human  life !  I  am  clever  about  painting — I  can  draw  in 
charcoal  and  I  can  put  in  colors  with  a  good  hand ;  but  I 
must  be  naturally  very  dull,  because  my  effort  in  that  line 
has  drained  all  my  intellectuality  and  left  my  brain  a  mere 
waste  of  nondescript  matter.  It's  a  pity  to  tell  you,  if  you 
haven't  observed  it,  but  I'm  not  clever." 

"Your  confession  is  unnecessary,"  said  Michael. 


106  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  I  used  to  read,"  Rachel  continued,  turning  her  face 
with  the  gray  light  still  over  it  towards  him,  "but  of  late 
I've  given  it  up.  When  one  works  all  day,  one  can't  study, 
can  one  ?" 

"Yes,  one  can,"  said  Michael.  "The  will  finds  the  way 
in  most  things." 

She  frowned  and  looked  up  at  him  ;  he  smiled  and  looked 
down  upon  her. 

"  How  do  you  suppose  I  read  ?"  he  asked.  "  Do  you  sup 
pose  I  was  brought  up  to  follow  my  own  fancies?  Do  you 
•know  that  as  a  boy  I  ploughed  the  only  field  that  was 
ploughed  upon  the  farm  and  left  my  ploughing  at  night, 
tired  and  hungry,  to  grind  away  at  political  economy? 
Many  were  the  mornings  I  got  up  by  candle  light,  trying  to 
get  in  an  hour  of  reading  before  the  cattle  had  to  be  watered 
and  the  horses  groomed.  You  may  call  it  ambition  and 
praise  it,  if  you  will,  but  it  was  not  ambition,  and  there  is 
nothing  praiseworthy  about  it.  It  was  a  selfish  desire  to 
know  more  than  those  people,  that  I  might  be  more  than 
they,  and  so  turn  and  spit  upon  them.  Hate  was  my  spur, 
not  ambition.  They  looked  down  upon  an  illegitimate  hire 
ling  from  their  plane  of  respectability  ,  but  one  day  I  knew 
the  hireling  should  look  down  upon  them  and  their  legiti 
macy.  It  was  for  that  I  worked,  for  that  I  toiled,  for  that 
I  studied.  The  minister  lent  me  what  books  he  had ; 
those  that  he  didn't  have  I  borrowed  from  the  school 
master  without  his  knowledge.  If  a  book  could  have  taught 
me  anything  and  I  couldn't  have  borrowed  it,  I  should 
have  stolen  it.  As  it  was,  I  read  Mill,  Jevons,  Marshall, 
Fawcett,  and  the  rest.  The  first  three  dollars  that  I  earned 
went  to  a  year's  subscription  to  the  Humboldt  Library, 
though  at  the  time  I  hadn't  a  whole  coat  to  my  back." 

He  paused  abruptly  and  Rachel  looked  up  at  him  again, 
the  firelight  flickering  where  the  gray  light  had  been.  Her 
face  was  flushed,  her  eyes  soft,  and  there  was  a  half-smile 
about  her  mouth. 

"  And  this  has  made  you  ?"  she  said. 


THE   DESCENDANT  107 

"This  made  me  toil,  unceasingly  toil." 

And  he  spoke  truly.  By  roughness  he  was  moulded,  by 
bitterness  warped.  A  creature  of  impulse,  he  was  without 
the  judgment  that  a  systematic  training  imparts  -,  the  emo 
tional  side  of  his  nature  was  easily  aroused,  and,  unless 
checkmated  by  will,  prevailed. 

"  I'm  sure,"  Rachel  was  saying,  "  I  don't  need  all  these 
books  to  convince  me  of  evolution.  I've  read  The  Evo 
lution  of  the  Horse,  and  believe  in  it.  I've  forgotten  who 
wrote  it,  but  I  know  that  I  paid  twelve  and  one-half  cents 
for  it,  and  that  1  read  it  every  morning  for  a  week  in  my 
bath.  It  was  so  interesting  that  I  sometimes  forgot  and 
stayed, in  the  water  too  long,  and,  after  I  had  finished  it,  I 
had  pneumonia.  The  book  used  to  get  so  soapy  and  wet, 
and  the  last  page  was  entirely  obliterated,  but  it  was  de 
licious,  and  it  convinced  me  perfectly." 

"  How  like  a  woman  !"  exclaimed  Michael.  The  girl  had 
spoken  lightly,  rippling  with  merriment.  She  tossed  her 
head  with  a  little  defiant  gesture,  and  the  dark  coil  of  hair 
slipped  from  its  place,  falling  in  a  heavy  wave  upon  her 
shoulders.  Then,  as  she  put  up  her  hand  to  rearrange  it, 
her  lips  curved  and  quivered  in  their  sensitive,  bewitching 
way. 

"  Rachel !"  said  Michael.  He  said  it  warmly,  and  before 
the  curve  had  died  upon  her  lips  he  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

Rachel  gasped  a  moment  in  her  surprise;  and  then,  with 
a  fierce  movement,  she  pushed  him  from  her.  "  How — how 
dare  you  ?"  she  cried.  "  I  always  did  hate  to  kiss  men  ! 
How  dare  you  ?'' 

And  she  darted  past  him  into  the  adjoining  room,  slam 
ming  the  door  after  her.  The  next  moment  Michael  could 
have  kicked  himself ;  but  being  a  man,  and  never  venting 
his  wrath  upon  himself  when  there  was  anything  else 
around,  he  kicked  a  chair  instead,  and  went  down-stairs  and 
out  into  the  street.  He  was  conscious  that  the  strongest 
conviction  he  had  ever  entertained  was  the  present  one — 
that  he  was  a  fool. 


I08  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  Now  I've  gone  and  done  it,"  he  thought,  forcibly,  "  and 
there's  an  end." 

Going  to  his  office,  he  met  Driscoll,  who  was  leaving,  and 
who  inquired  what  was  up. 

"The  devil's  up,"  replied  Michael. 

"  In  that  case  there're  two  of  them  on  the  earth,"  said 
Driscoll,  "  and  we're  that  much  worse  off  than  we  thought. 
I've  had  one  round  my  way  for  the  past  week ;  he's  been  en 
tertaining  me  with  rheumatism,  and,  by  Jove  !  if  he  doesn't 
leave  off  I'll  cut  and  run.  I've  been  regularly  down  in  the 
depths.  I  always  thought  civilization  didn't  agree  with  me, 
and  now  I  know  it.  I  have  had  the  blues  to  distraction  for  a 
fortnight,  and  it  will  soon  be  Florida  or  Blackwell's  Island." 

"  Thought  your  optimism  wasn't  good  for  much ;  but, 
Driscoll — ' 

"Optimism  !  Say,  old  man,  don't  slander  a  fellow.  I'm 
willing  to  answer  for  the  special  sins  which  I  have  achieved 
myself,  but  I  don't  like  having  them  thrust  upon  me.  The 
phases  of  my  life  have  about  run  through,  and  it  has  been 
a  steady,  downward  course.  First  I  was  an  idealist  (that 
was  early  —  fools  are  born,  not  made,  you  know) ;  next  I 
was  a  realist ;  now  I  am  a  pessimist,  and,  by  Jove  !  if  things 
get  much  worse  I'll  become  a  humorist." 

"  Hardly,"  said  Michael.  "  A  man  does  not  laugh  at  life 
until  he  finds  it  worthless.  As  long  as  he  places  any  value 
upon  it  he  regards  it  seriously.  It's  a  bore !" 

"  By-the-bye,  Shem,  run  down  to  Florida  with  me." 

"No." 

"  You  may  have  all  the  oranges  you  can  find." 

"No!" 

"  You  may  fish  for  tadpoles." 

"No!" 

"  Ah,  you're  incorrigible  !  It's  no  good.  I'm  thinking 
of  going  down  myself,  solely  for  the  sake  of  getting  rid  of 
animal  food.  I've  become  a  vegetarian  ;  a  man  with  indi 
gestion  should  eat  only  unbolted  flour  and  vegetables. 
I've  been  dieting  for  a  week,  and  you  shall  see  the  result," 


THE   DESCENDANT  IOQ 

"  Another  fad  ?" 

"No  fad  about  it — honest  fact.  Follow  my  example. 
Make  them  use  unbolted  flour  wherever  you  breakfast,  and 
don't  let  them  mix  any  of  their  damned  nonsense  in  the 
vegetables.  Take  them  straight." 

"  Shall  you  be  at  the  Iconoclast  Society  next  week  ?" 

"  If  I  am  not  in  Florida.  I've  an  engagement  to  dine. 
Good-night." 

Michael  went  on  his  way  heavily  despondent.  Would 
she  ever  forgive  him  ?  Did  she  realize  what  a  confounded 
fool  he  was  ?  How  would  it  end  ?  She  was  so  practical ; 
so  far  from  any  vapid  sentimentality ,  so  far  above  the  miry 
shallows  of  love  in  which  he  was  floundering.  All  night 
he  dreamed  restlessly  of  her  anger  and  its  consequences, 
and  came  down,  haggard  and  white,  in  the  morning,  to  find 
Rachel  starting  out  to  the  art  school. 

She  nodded  and  smiled  gayly  as  she  passed  out,  and  he 
ate  a  hearty  breakfast  in  the  ecstasy  of  his  relief. 

"  She  has  forgiven  me,  bless  her,"  he  thought ;  but  with 
Rachel  it  was  less  forgiveness  than  forgetfulness.  Until 
meeting  him  at  breakfast  she  had  not  remembered  his  ex 
istence  ;  the  kiss  had  been  merely  the  cause  of  a  moment's 
resentment,  and  then  she  had  forgotten  it,  as  she  usually 
managed  to  forget  sentimental  episodes.  She  considered 
them  merely  as  melodramatic  interludes  in  the  drama  of 
life ;  after  the  interest  of  the  moment  they  fell  away  and 
left  one  as  unaffected  as  the  ripples  leave  a  mountain  lake. 
Sentiment  is  one  of  the  side-lights  thrown  upon  life  to  give 
it  coloring — nothing  more. 

For  several  days  Michael  did  not  go  to  the  studio.  He 
was  restless  and  distraught ;  if  he  was  spoken  to  he  snarled, 
if  not  he  grumbled.  Love  for  Rachel  had  entered  into  his 
being,  consuming  him  with  its  intensity.  Because  she  was 
far  off  and  unattainable,  the  intensity  increased  fourfold. 
Some  natures  love  only  that  which  is  beyond  them  :  a 
star  in  the  highest  heaven,  a  flower  beyond  the  meadow 
fence.  Michael's  was  one  of  these.  It  is  well  for  them  if 


HO  THE    DESCENDANT 

the  star  sets  not  within  their  reach,  if  the  flower  blooms 
and  withers  beyond  the  bars  ;  it  is  well  for  them,  and  it  is 
better  for  the  star  and  the  flower. 

We  may  sigh  for  our  ideals,  and  sob  for  them  as  children 
for  the  moon ;  but  if  we  grasp  them  and  they  fall  to  pieces, 
which  is  the  way  with  ideals,  we  throw  them  aside  and  bind 
our  bleeding  hands.  And  when  the  wounds  have  healed  we 
look  about  for  fresh  ideals,  leaving  the  broken  ones  strewn 
upon  the  mire. 

At  the  end  of  three  days  he  went  to  her  again.  It  was 
light  enough  for  work,  and  Rachel  was  cleaning  her  palette 
near  the  window.  She  held  a  small  scraper  in  her  hand. 
He  noticed  that  she  looked  tired,  the  purple  shadows  under 
her  eyes  had  darkened,  and  her  face  was  white.  She  was 
so  small,  so  childlike,  so  lovable  to  him  at  least,  that  a  sud 
den  tenderness  overwhelmed  him. 

"  Rachel,"  he  said,  "  will  you  listen  to  me  ?" 

Rachel  looked  slightly  bored. 

"  Not  if  it  is  long,  please,"  she  answered.  "  If  it's  to  be 
long,  I'd  rather  not.  I  am  just  as  tired  as  I  can  be." 

"  It  is  not  long,"  he  answered.  "It  is  very  short;  it  is 
only  that — I  love  you." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  she  said,  pettishly.  "  I  can't  bear 
love-making ,  it's  silly." 

"It  is  not  silly,"  he  answered,  "and  it  is  not  love-mak 
ing;  it  is  love — earnest,  absorbing  love.  You  may  do  what 
you  please  afterwards,  but  you  must  listen  to  me  now.  I 
tell  you  I  love  you !  I  love  you  !  I  love  you  !  I  have  never 
said  these  words  before  in  my  life,  and  I  never  shall  again. 
They  are  meant  for  you,  and  you  alone.  I  don't  want  an 
answer  from  you.  I  would  ask  no  woman  to  share  my  life ; 
it  would  mean  pain  and  humiliation  to  her.  It  would 
mean—  But  I  love  you  !  I  love  you  !  No,  you  can't  get 
away;  you  shall  hear  me  again — I  love  you  !" 

He  spoke  rapidly,  his  lips  trembling,  his  face  white,  his 
magnetic  gaze  illuminating  her,  scorching  her,  as  though 
the  scintillating  flame  were  shafts  of  fire.  He  reached  for- 


THE   DESCENDANT  III 

ward  and  took  her  hands,  holding  them  firmly  in  his  own, 
and  bending  still  upon  her  that  rapt,  impassioned  glance. 

The  girl  shivered,  trembled,  and  paled  until  her  face 
seemed  of  marble.  A  sudden  fear  dawned  in  her  eyes ; 
they  grew  dark  with  suppressed  tears.  Then,  with  an  effort, 
she  broke  from  him  in  a  tempest  of  wrath. 

"  You  are  cruel !  cruel !  cruel !"  she  cried.  "  Why  do  you 
come  and  make  me  miserable  with  your  nonsense  ?  Why 
can't  you  leave  me  in  peace  ?  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  you  ! 
I  hate  you !  I  hope  I  shall  never  see  you  again  !  I  hate 
you  !  I  hate  you  !" 

And  she  threw  herself  upon  the  couch  and  burst  into 
tears. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MADAME  LAROQUE  was  a  lady  who  had  had  an  experi 
ence.  Now,  experiences  affect  different  women  in  different 
ways.  It  is  principally  a  question  of  proportion  :  either  the 
experience  is  too  big  for  the  woman  and  it  effaces  her,  or 
the  woman  is  too  big  for  the  experience  and  she  effaces  it. 
Unfortunately,  Madame  Laroque  came  under  the  first  head  ; 
her  experience  was  so  large  that  it  had  overwhelmed  her, 
and  she  had  never  entirely  ceased  trembling  from  the 
shock.  The  more  she  thought  of  it,  the  more  it  surprised 
her;  the  more  it  surprised  her,  the  more  she  thought  of  it; 
and  the  bigger  the  experience  got,  the  smaller  became 
Madame  Laroque. 

One  day  Madame  was  sick  in  her  room,  and  towards 
evening  she  sent  for  Miss  Gavin  to  come  and  read  to  her. 
Madame  never  read  any  book  but  the  Bible.  She  said  it 
was  the  only  book  that  she  was  absolutely  sure  contained 
no  allusion  to  Frenchmen. 

"  And  even  if  the  Lord  did  include  them  in  the  faithless 
and  perverse  generation,"  she  said,  "  it  is  less  than  they  de 
serve."  Madame  had  known  only  one  Frenchman,  but  she 
generalized.  Where  is  philosophy  without  generalization  ? 

Rachel  read  the  Psalms.  David  was  a  high-spirited  man, 
Madame  said,  and  she  admired  him,  he  knew  so  well  how 
to  get  away  with  his  enemies.  She  listened  complacently, 
lying  back  among  the  pillows,  her  small  hands  playing  ner 
vously  with  the  sheet.  Madame  was  of  a  religious  tempera 
ment  ;  her  wall  was  covered  with  a  number  of  rather  ques 
tionable  Madonnas ;  at  the  head  of  her  bed  hung  a  little 
Florentine  altar,  upon  which  she  kept  a  lamp  continually 
burning.  I  think  she  had  a  vague  idea  that  it  was  an  offer- 


THE   DESCENDANT  1 13 

ing  by  which  Providence  was  bribed  to  protect  her  from  an 
influx  of  foreigners.  Whether  the  terms  were  accepted  or 
not  is  doubtful,  but  so  far  Madame  dwelt  unmolested. 

Rachel  read  the  Psalms,  and  then  closed  the  book  and 
leaned  back  in  her  chair.  There  was  something  infinitely 
soothing  to  her  in  some  of  the  measured  phrases.  A  swift, 
luxurious  tenderness,  which  is  the  sheath  of  religious  senti 
ment,  enveloped  her. 

"  As  the  hart  panteth  after  the  water  brooks,  so  panteth 
my  soul  after  thee,  O  God." 

She  was  looking  at  the  red  flame  flickering  before  the 
altar,  and  suddenly  she  felt  that  if  Madame  were  away  she 
would  like  to  go  up  to  it  and  rest  her  head  upon  the  altar- 
cloth,  and  clasp  her  hands  before  the  red  flame,  and  implore 
peace  and  protection. 

Then,  with  an  effort,  she  shook  herself  free  from  the  de 
sire,  and  glanced  at  the  Madonnas  upon  the  wall ;  •  she 
wondered  why  Madonnas  always  reminded  one  of  sheep. 
" Why'couldn't  they  paint  a  reasonable-looking  one?"  she 
thought.  "  I'm  sure  it's  a  mistake  to  think  that  holiness 
and  imbecility  are  synonymous.  I  wish  I  could  do  one.  I 
should  make  it  more  symbolical  of  mind,  less  of  matter." 

"  I  was  just  like  you,"  Madame  was  saying,  "  when  I  was 
your  age." 

Rachel  started  and  looked  at  Madame  Laroque.  She 
wondered  if  her  expression  could  ever  become  as  inane. 

"  I  think  that  hardly  possible,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  mean  in  appearance,"  continued  Madame, 
"though  I  was  considered  a  very  pretty  girl.  I  mean  in 
mind  and  ambition." 

Rachel  started  again. 

"I  might  have  been  an  artist,"  Madame  went  dreamily 
on,  "  if  I  hadn't  been  a  fool  instead." 

Rachel  was  relieved  by  the  explanation. 

"Yes?"  she  said. 

"  I  am  sure  no  one  thought  me  a  fool  until  I  married," 
said  Madame.  "  I  had  quite  a  talent  for  painting.  I  did 


114  THE    DESCENDANT 

several  beautiful  pastels.  Poor,  dear  papa  was  so  proud 
of  them  he  had  them  framed  and  hung  in  the  parlor;  one 
was  a  lake  with  an  island  and  some  swans  floating  around. 
But  I  gave  up  my  ambition  for  marriage;  it's  the  way  with 
women.  You'll  do  it  some  day." 

"  Never !"  said  Rachel.  She  said  it  so  sharply  that 
Madame  was  alarmed,  thinking  she  might  have  missed  a 
noise  on  the  stairs. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you'll  give  up  your  art,  as  I  did.  The 
more  sensible  a  woman  is,  the  bigger  fool  she  becomes 
when  she  falls  in  love.  I  suppose  the  Lord  intended  it. 
I  guess  He  knew  if  he  made  women  any  smarter  the  race 
would  come  to  a  stop.  I  guess  He  knows  best — at  least,  He 
ought  to;  but  it  does  seem  strange  to  me  that  He  couldn't 
have  found  a  better  way  to  arrange  things." 

Madame  had  talked  rapidly ;  she  was  excited,  and  her 
usual  placidity  was  broken  ;  a  little  pink  flush  had  risen  to 
her  cheeks. 

"If  you  want  to  be  miserable,"  said  Madame,  "marry; 
if  you  want  to  be  more  so,  marry  a  Frenchman." 

"  I  shall  not  marry,"  said  Rachel,  curtly,  but  Madame 
paid  no  heed  to  her. 

"  Frenchmen  are  dirty,"  she  said.  "  They  chew  bad 
tobacco  and  beat  their  wives."  The  fact  that  M.  Laroque 
had  acquired  both  habits  upon  American  soil  in  no  wise 
modified  Madame's  convictions.  "They're  a  bad  lot,"  she 
said. 

Rachel  placed  the  book  upon  the  table,  nodded  good 
bye  to  Madame  Laroque,  and  went  down-stairs.  She  was 
thinking;  for  weeks  she  had  been  groping  in  the  dusk  of  a 
terrible  uncertainty.  Slowly  she  was  awakening  to  the 
knowledge  that  a  change  was  taking  place  in  her  life — in 
herself;  some  indescribable  distraction,  some  mental  rest 
lessness  hindering  the  progress  of  her  work.  She  had 
been  unhappy  and  uneasy;  the  hand  with  which  she  held 
her  brush  faltered;  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  stroke 
of  the  artist  was  not  firm.  It  was  maddening  her;  it  was 


THE   DESCENDANT  115 

as  if  she  were  passing  through  some  period  of  mental  fever. 
Her  pulse  was  high  ;  its  every  throb  was  quickened  into 
unhealthy  action.  She  began  to  look  at  things  from  an 
abnormal  standpoint;  she  was  no  longer  frank  and  unfet 
tered.  "  What  is  it?"  she  asked,  but  she  could  not  answer  ; 
she  only  laid  her  brushes  aside,  and,  resting  her  head  upon 
her  palette,  wept — the  bitterest  tears  of  her  life. 

Something  had  come  between  her  and  her  art — a  terrible 
shadow,  looming  dark  and  tall,  casting  its  black  length 
across  all  her  brilliant  future.  For  weeks  she  had  felt  its 
presence.  She  had  but  to  turn  her  head  and  she  would 
find  the  shadow  at  her  elbow,  waiting  to  take  the  brush 
from  her  wavering  hand,  waiting  to  obliterate  the  colors 
from  the  canvas,  waiting  to  walk  beside  her  for  ever  and 
ever. 

She  shivered  and  shrank  back ;  she  looked  upon  her 
unfinished  picture — the  great  Magdalen  ;  she  stretched  out 
her  hands  with  a  bewildered,  appealing  gesture.  "  O  God, 
anything  but  that — anything  but  that,  O  my  God  !  my  God  !" 

She  threw  herself  upon  her  knees  beside  it,  her  bowed 
head  resting  against  the  outlined  hem  of  the  painted  wom 
an's  garment.  It  was  the  hour  of  supreme  self-abnegation, 
the  hour  when  she  saw  the  toil  of  her  life  stretching  back 
amidst  a  desert  waste  and  stretching  onward  to  nothingness. 
She  had  reared  the  temple  of  her  aspirations  upon  her  own 
heart,  and  she  saw  it  shiver  and  crumble  to  its  foundations, 
a  dart  hurled  by  her  own  faithless  hand. 

"  Not  that,"  she  prayed,  "  not  that.  Only  let  me  live  for 
my  work.  I  ask  so  little — so  little  ;  I  only  ask  to  work — 
work  —  work.  Steel  my  heart,  make  me  cruel,  hideous, 
wicked — anything — but  leave  me  my  work." 

She  prayed  as  a  stranger  might  have  prayed  who  saw  a 
great  thing,  unknown  to  him,  lured  to  destruction.  She  saw 
with  the  eye  of  the  mind ;  from  the  watch-tower  of  the  in 
tellect  she  looked  down  into  the  heart,  and  writhed  and  was 
sickened  at  the  sight.  It  was  as  if  a  devil  and  an  angel 
warred  within  her,  one  chaining  her  to  the  flesh  and  to 


Il6  THE   DESCENDANT 

earth,  the  other  drawing  her  upward  to  the  heaven  of  the 
mind. 

Said  the  devil,  "  You  are  tired  of  toil ;  put  it  by.  Laugh, 
love,  live,  as  other  women  live ;  and  then  die  and  be  for 
gotten,  as  other  women  are  forgotten.  It  comes  to  the 
same  in  the  end.  Life  is  sweet — love." 

Said  the  angel,  in  its  still,  small  voice,  "  There  is  a  heaven 
to  be  reached — a  heaven  of  the  knowledge  of  work  well 
done ;  the  way  to  do  it  lies  through  barren  ways,  up  steep 
mountain-sides,  and  along  desert  wastes ;  alone  you  must 
set  out  to  it,  alone  you  will  reach  it." 

Still  they  warred  and  wrestled  within  her,  and  she  crouched 
like  a  hunted  thing  upon  the  floor.  For  weeks  she  had  not 
put  in  a  stroke.  Her  mind  was  dazed  and  confused  ;  the 
old  inspiration  had  flown  before  the  dark  presence.  She 
took  up  a  brush,  but  her  hand  faltered  and  she  let  it  fall. 
She  sat  before  her  easel,  and  her  thoughts  fluttered  like 
swallows  before  they  settle  to  rest.  She  had  grown  white 
and  thin  ;  the  shadows  under  her  eyes  looked  like  the 
marks  of  inky  fingers.  The  old,  independent,  audacious 
air  had  left  her ;  she  had  grown  self-centred  and  intense. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Charles  Dupont,  the  critic.  "  Ra 
chel,  it  is  that  your  heart  is  not  in  it ;  get  it  back,  my  child, 
get  it  back,  or  your  work  is  over.  A  woman  is  not  like  a 
man — a  man  may  have  many  interests,  a  woman  but  one, 
or  they  are  all  worthless." 

"It  is  not  fair!"  cried  Rachel,  passionately,  "it  is  not 
fair  !  Why  should  men  have  everything  in  this  world  ?" 

"  Ask  the  Creator,  my  child  ;  He  willed  it,  not  I." 

Rachel  had  gone  furiously  to  work.  She  stood  before 
the  glass,  shaking  her  clinched  fist  at  her  image.  "  Rachel 
Gavin,"  she  said,  "  you  are  a  fool — an  utter,  utter  fool !" 

Then  she  shut  herself  in  her  studio  and  set  to  work.  For 
six  hours  she  did  not  leave  her  easel ;  her  lips  were  firmly 
set,  her  eyes  were  strained  with  determination.  She  worked 
without  pausing,  without  looking  up,  but  without  inspira 
tion.  It  was  an  effort,  and  she  knew  it.  Some  hidden 


THE    DESCENDANT  117 

undercurrent  of  feeling  was  retarding  thought ;  the  old  ab 
sorbed  concentration  had  become  impossible  to  her ;  a  dis 
tracting  duality  of  interest  was  weakening  every  stroke  of 
her  brush.  Let  her  will  rebel  as  it  would,  it  could  not  domi 
nate  emotion.  Thought  and  feeling  were  at  strife ;  one 
must  triumph  before  peace  was  restored.  In  a  man,  thought 
would  have  risen  mighty  and  victorious,  surveying  with  calm- 
neutrality  the  ruins  of  the  heart's  passion,  or,  it  may  be,  bal 
ancing  the  opposing  forces  in  the  scales  of  judgment;  in  a 
woman — ah,  when  does  love  triumph  that  it  has  not  throttled 
reason  ?  Great  love  it  is — strong  to  suffer,  fearless  to  bear 
pain,  mighty  to  sacrifice,  but  rearing  its  fair  and  holy  tem 
ple  upon  the  ashes  of  ambition. 

The  light  grew  fainter,  a  long  ray  of  April  sunshine  came 
in  at  the  open  window,  stretching  across  the  faded  carpet, 
across  the  Japanese  screen  in  the  corner,  across  the  couch 
before  the  fire,  and  across  the  canvas  upon  which  the  girl 
worked.  It  illumined  the  strong,  bold  figure  of  the  Mag 
dalen,  the  unrestrained  drawing  of  pose,  the  repentant 
droop  of  the  head,  the  passion  and  misery  and  sin.  The 
colors  seemed  to  take  fire  and  glow  with  a  living  flame. 
Over  Rachel's  bowed  head  the  same  sweet  sunlight  fell, 
resting  about  her  white  brow  like  an  aureole.  The  graven 
intensity  of  her  face  had  the  look  of  Parian  marble.  She 
was  making  her  last  throw  for  ambition,  her  last  struggle 
against  nature  and  her  own  heart. 

The  little  silver  clock  upon  the  mantel,  with  the  little 
silver  bird  swinging  to  and  fro,  rang  out  the  hour.  It  was 
growing  late ;  the  sunlight  was  fading  westward.  In  the 
streets  below  men  and  women  were  going  homeward  from 
their  work.  At  least,  they  could  work ;  they  were  not  de 
nied  that.  It  was  better  to  roll  cigarettes  in  a  factory  or 
stitch  cotton  shirts  than  to  sink  into  a  drone,  losing  hour 
by  hour  the  toil  of  a  lifetime — the  ambition  of  an  eternity. 
She  rose  and  laid  her  brushes  by. 

"  I  will  work,"  she  said,  and  she  clasped  her  hands  above 
her  head,  drawing  back  to  look  upon  her  picture.  The 


Il8  THE    DESCENDANT 

figure  loomed  boldly  upon  the  canvas,  the  drawing  was  the 
drawing  of  a  master.  Rachel  smiled  softly  with  happiness 
— that,  at  least,  would  not  fail  her.  She  looked  at  the  face 
upon  which  she  had  been  working — the  mouth,  the  eyes,  the 
brow.  The  eyes  looked  back  at  her,  rapt  and  pregnant 
with  a  great  foreshadowing ;  the  mouth  seemed  to  quiver 
with  the  memory  of  a  past. 

Then  the  girl  gave  a  little  convulsive  shudder  and  moaned 
aloud,  for  the  face  had  the  look  of  Michael  Akershem. 

"O  God!"  she  sobbed,  her  frame  shaken  with  tearless 
sobs.  Her  heart  was  rent,  the  ambition  of  a  lifetime  un 
done.  To  a  woman  the  mental  toil  of  an  eternity  may 
sink  to  nothingness  before  one  heart-throb. 

Then,  as  she  clung  sobbing  to  her  easel,  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door.  It  opened,  and  Michael  Akershem  came  in. 

He  glanced  at  her  with  a  quick  surprise,  started  back 
ward  and  then  forward  again. 

"Miss  Gavin,"  he  said—"  Rachel,  what  is  it?" 

The  tears  started  to  Rachel's  eyes  and  stung  her  like 
melted  fire.  She  flushed  and  shrank  away. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  can't  work  ;  I  am  wretched 
— wretched."  And  then  she  wrung  her  hands  with  a  des 
perate  gesture. 

He  came  and  stood  beside  her,  taking  her  cold  hands 
very  gently  in  his.  He  would  have  looked  at  the  canvas, 
but  she  drew  him  away  with  a  cry. 

"  Don't — don't — you  must  not — you  shall  not  look  at  it !" 

But  he  did  look  at  it,  and  to  him  it  seemed  only  a  strong, 
beautiful  figure,  the  work  of  a  master  hand.  "  It  is  great," 
he  said. 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  ?"  cried  Rachel.  "  I  have  ruined  it — 
ruined  it.  I  would  have  given  my  life  for  it,  and  I  have 
ruined  it !" 

"  Ruined  it  ?  Impossible,"  he  said.  "  Why,  it  is  magnifi 
cent.  Are  you  mad  ?" 

For  the  girl  had  thrown  the  curtain  over  it  with  a  frantic 
haste.  "  I  am  wretched  !  wretched  I"  she  cried. 


THE    DESCENDANT  1 19 

Michael  held  her  from  him  and  looked  into  her  face. 

"Rachel,"  he  said,  "trust  me." 

The  girl  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him,  the  tear-drops 
trembling  upon  her  lashes,  her  mouth  quivering.  For  a  mo 
ment  the  man  was  silent;  he  was  struggling  as  she  had 
struggled  between  love  and  reason.  As  with  her,  will  and 
emotion  were  unevenly  matched.  The  stronger  prevailed. 
A  sudden  tumultuous  joy  took  possession  of  him,  putting 
all  other  consciousness  to  flight.  "Rachel!"  he  said; 
"  dearest !"  He  drew  her  towards  him  ;  he  lifted  her  head, 
looking  down  into  her  eyes.  The  eyes  were  hot  with  his 
image,  and  he  saw  it. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said  again,  "  dearest !"  and  he  kissed  her 
upon  brow  and  lips.  His  kisses  scorched  her  like  fire,  his 
gaze  burned  her  like  a  flame. 

And  Rachel  gave  up  the  struggle.  A  sudden  intense, 
illusive  happiness  sent  the  blood  beating  to  her  pulses 
and  a  warmer  light  to  her  face.  She  forgot  her  work — her 
art — her  ambition.  She  had  sold  them  all  for  this,  and 
she  did  not  regret  her  bargain ;  she  would  have  sold 
them  again,  and  gladly,  assisting  with  dry  eyes  at  the  sac 
rifice. 

"  You  love  me,  Rachel  ?"     He  spoke  imperatively. 

"  Love  you !"  With  a  passionate  sob  she  threw  back 
her  head,  stamping  her  foot  upon  the  floor.  "  Don't  you 
see  that  I  love  you  ?"  she  cried.  "  My  God  !  I  can't  help 
it ;  I  love  you  !" 

"  Oh,  my  beloved !"  His  kisses  fell  hotly  upon  her  quiv 
ering  lips.  But  as  he  caught  her  to  him  a  latent  spark  of 
her  old  independence  took  fire  and  flamed  forth.  She  broke 
from  him. 

"  It  is  dreadful— dreadful !"  she  cried. 

"  But,  Rachel,  does  it  make  you  wretched  ?  I  am  yours 
• — yours  for  life  or  death.  I  will  give  up  my  work  to-mor 
row  and  marry  you." 

The  girl  started. 

"  Marry  me  ?"  she  repeated.     "  How  could  you  ?" 


120  'THE   DESCENDANT 

He  Smiled,  and,  catching  her  outstretched  hands,  kissed 
them. 

"  I  worship  you,"  he  said.  "  I  would  throw  away  every 
chance  of  my  life — every  hope,  every  principle,  for  you  !" 

"  They  would  scorn  and  laugh  at  you.  You  have  lived 
your  principles  for  years,  and  now,  at  the  first  bid  of  a 
woman,  you  cast  them  away.  Oh  no ;  I  cannot !  I  can 
not  !" 

"  Let  them  laugh  at  me.  If  I  have  you,  what  do  I  care, 
darling?  Darling,  can't  you  understand?  I  shall  resign 
from  my  party.  I  have  made  it,  and  I  have  the  right  to  un 
make  it.  I'll  get  a  position  as  coal-heaver,  brakeman — any 
thing." 

"  And  in  six  months  you  would  regret  it.  Do  you  think 
that  a  man's  love  can  extinguish  ambition  ?  Only  a  woman's 
love  can  do  that.  You  would  live  to  regret  your  work,  your 
freedom ;  you  would  brand  yourself  a  traitor  in  your  own 
eyes,  and  I — my  God!  I  should  go  mad,  for  I  love  you." 

She  kissed  him  as  he  leaned  above  her. 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  could  live  and  know  that  I  had 
ruined  your  life  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  had  rather  kill  myself 
now,  before  you  had  time  to  reproach  me.  I  had  rather 
never  lay  my  eyes  on  you  again.  Oh,  my  love  !  my  love  !" 

Rachel  was  young,  and  ignorant,  as  most  young  things 
are.  She  had  not  learned  that  self-immolation  is  the  surest 
bond  by  which  one  binds  one's  self  to  another.  It  is  not 
those  who  sacrifice  themselves  to  us  whom  we  love,  but 
those  to  whom  we  sacrifice  ourselves.  Perhaps  there  is  a 
fundamental  principle  of  egoism  which  sustains  it,  but  the 
fact  is  there ;  we  do  not  cease  to  value  a  possession  which 
has  cost  us  a  great  expenditure  of  ourselves.  Self-immola 
tion  on  the  part  of  another  we  are  apt  to  regard  lightly, 
deeming  that  of  small  value  which  places  not  a  greater  price 
upon  itself.  Oh,  we  are  only  wise  in  our  own  conceit! 

After  Michael  Akershem  had  gone,  Rachel  remained 
standing  before  the  fireplace  in  the  gathering  dusk.  She 
heard  his  footsteps  passing  along  the  hall,  she  heard  him 


THE    DESCENDANT  121 

ring  the  elevator -bell,  and  then  heard  the  sound  of  the 
ropes  as  it  went  downward.  She  knew  that  the  very  sound 
of  his  footsteps  was  music  in  her  ears.  Such  intensity  of 
emotion  she  had  never  felt  before ;  it  was  as  if  the  fount  of 
feeling  within  her  heart,  after  being  frozen  for  years,  had 
thawed  of  a  sudden  and  found  a  channel.  She  no  longer 
repelled  the  thought ;  she  hugged  it  to  her  heart,  and  gloried 
in  it  as  a  mother  in  the  joy  of  her  child.  It  was  new  and 
strange,  this  swift,  pulsating  happiness,  this  illusive  sense 
of  life  and  of  possession ;  it  was  something,  she  thought, 
worth  living  for,  worth  dying  for,  worth  resigning  heaven 
for,  and  worth  walking  barefooted  through  hell  to  gain.  It 
was  happiness  and  it  was  more  than  happiness — it  was  pain. 
Behind  her  the  veiled  Magdalen  loomed  like  a  visible 
forewarning,  before  her  the  ruddy  coals  glowed  like  a  pas 
sionate  heart  of  fire.  She  smiled  and  sobbed,  and  bowed 
her  head  upon  her  hands. 

That  evening  Michael  delivered  an  address  before  the 
Twentieth  Century  Society,  and  was  congratulated  after 
wards  upon  having  made  one  of  the  hits  of  his  life.  The 
society  was  composed  principally  of  workingmen — men  who, 
spending  their  lives  in  physical  labor,  are  willing  to  save 
themselves  mental  by  taking  their  opinions  second-hand. 
A  brilliant  tongue  and  a  magnetic  presence  are  more  forci 
ble  than  logic,  and  Michael  possessed  both.  He  swept 
over  the  universe  like  a  thunder-cloud,  lashing  his  audience 
into  frenzy  by  the  scorching  fire  of  his  rhetoric.  He  kicked 
society  from  one  end  of  the  platform  to  the  other  for  the 
space  of  several  hours.  When  he  had  finished  society 
might  have  gathered  itself  like  the  Arabs  and  as  shame 
facedly  slunk  away.  A  man  who  is  in  earnest  is  a  power 
in  the  nation.  By  a  chemical  affinity  he  attracts  as  satel 
lites  a  host  of  feebler  intellects  whose  earnestness  is  seek 
ing  to  gain  a  parasitic  existence.  One  man  conceives,  a 
thousand  re-echo  his  conceptions.  If  he  is  in  earnest  for 
good,  he  may  act  as  the  leaven  of  a  people  •  if  for  evil,  his 


122  THE    DESCENDANT 

influence,  like  a  subtle  poison,  may  extend  to  the  uttermost 
ends  of  the  earth. 

And  Michael  had  many  followers.  His  sincerity  was 
contagious,  his  buoyant  vitality  overmastering.  He  had 
become  the  recognized  leader  of  a  certain  enthusiastic  ele 
ment — youthful  bodies,  gravitating  towards  the  centre  of 
energy  nearest  their  environment.  He  himself,  having 
been  forced  beyond  his  given  orbit  by  circumstances  and 
sin,  was  now  in  turn  leading  where  his  lines  had  fallen, 
men  in  whose  individual  lives  these  circumstances  had  had 
no  part.  For  sin  is  sweeping,  and  there  is  none  so  small  but 
its  effects  may  extend  beyond  the  horizon  of  the  sinner  and 
into  an  existence  of  which  he  had  had  no  ken.  And,  let  us 
judge  others  as  we  may,  it  behooveth  us  to  ascertain  that  the 
limits  we  set  to  our  own  actions  are  the  limits  of  the  world 
and  not  those  of  our  own  poor  field  of  vision.  For  there 
are  generations  and  generations  in  the  dim  dusk  of  futurity 
over  whose  pathway  our  shadows  are  gathering  to  a  close. 

If  Michael  Akershem  had  died  that  night  he  would  have  left 
the  germ  of  bitterness  and  revolt  to  quicken  and  bring  forth 
fruit  in  a  thousand  minds,  turning  their  day  into  night,  as  his 
had  been  turned  by  a  wrong  which  had  died  to  the  wronger 
in  the  hour  of  its  birth,  for  no  man  hath  strangled  an  action. 

"And  I  am  your  comrade,"  said  Rachel — "your  good 
comrade,  for  ever  and  ever." 

"  For  ever  and  ever,"  repeated  Michael. 

"  I  shall  help  you  with  your  work.  I  shall  be  your  best 
and  only  friend.  You  will  never  be  lonely  and  wretched 
again.  Call  me  your  comrade." 

"  My  blessed  comrade  !" 

"  My  hero !" 

"  My  star !" 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  a  great  help  to  you,  never  fear." 

And  they  caught  life  in  their  hands,  and  sought  to  mould 
it  into  a  beautiful  image.  But  it  is  less  easy  to  mould  life 
than  it  is  to  wound  one's  hands  in  the  attempt. 


BOOK  III 

DOMESTICATION 
"  Human  life  is  naught  but  error." — Schiller. 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  editorial  rooms  of  The  Iconoclast  had  been  put  into 
unusual  order;  a  char-woman,  accompanied  by  a  scouring- 
brush  and  a  bucket  of  soapsuds,  had  gone  over  the  floor, 
and  the  office  boy  had  turned  on  every  electric  jet. 

To-night  the  Iconoclast  Society,  composed  in  part  of 
stockholders  and  well-wishers — that  portion  of  humanity 
whose  wishes  have  some  financial  balance — were  sitting  in 
judgment  upon  the  record  of  the  month. 

Mr.  Kyle  had  the  chair.  Mr.  Kyle  was  a  man  of  some 
twenty  odd  years,  with  lank,  dark  hair  hanging  in  a  curtain 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  an  habitual  air  of  being  the  Keeper 
of  the  World's  Conscience,  an  office  which  he  found  so  en 
grossing  that,  in  his  concern  for  the  world's  conscience,  he 
was  inclined  to  overlook  the  condition  of  his  own. 

On  the  whole,  Mr.  Kyle  might  have  been  accounted  wise 
had  he  held  his  peace,  but,  unfortunately,  peace  was  the 
last  thing  to  be  mentioned  in  connection  with  Mr.  Kyle. 
Not  only  was  he  insecure  in  the  possession  of  his  own,  a 
condition  by  no  means  rare,  but  he  exerted  his  ability  to 
the  utmost  to  prevent  his  neighbors  from  retaining  theirs. 

"There  is  no  state  of  peace,"  said  Mr.  Kyle,  and,  indeed, 
there  was  not  if  Mr.  Kyle  was  by  or  in  ear-shot.  He  was 
assistant  editor  of  The  Iconoclast.  He  had  done  more  to 
promote  the  cause  than  any  man  living,  Akershem  not  ex- 
cepted.  He  hesitated  at  no  step  to  serve  the  party,  a  fact 
which  the  party  applauded  unanimously  and  deplored 
singly. 

Next  to  Kyle  came  Captain  O'Meara,  who  was  fat  and 
fair  and  somewhat  more  than  forty.  Captain  O'Meara  was 
a  jolly  good  fellow ;  his  heart  was  of  such  excellent  quality 


*26  THE    DESCENDANT 

that  one  forgot  to  wonder  what  had  become  of  his  head. 
Then  came  Semple,  who  had  been  unanimously  elected  an 
honorary  member. 

Across  from  Kyle,  with  their  faces  to  the  editor's  table, 
sat  three  gentlemen  in  three  straight -back  chairs.  The 
first  gentleman  was  very  tall  and  very  narrow—metaphori 
cally  speaking,  he  might  have  represented  mind  without 
matter;  literally,  bone  without  flesh.  The  second  gentle 
man  was  very  short  and  very  narrow;  his  eyes  had  a 
strangely  far-sighted  look,  as  if  he  were  considering  the 
prospect  of  next  year's  crops  upon  Mars.  The  third 
gentleman  was  of  a  moderate  height  and  an  immoderate 
breadth ;  he  had  a  habit  of  smacking  his  lips  at  intervals, 
as  if  he  hankered  after  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt. 

The  three  gentlemen  occupied  seats  of  honor,  and 
looked  like  devotees  before  the  altar  of  an  unknown  god. 
They  were  devotees,  but  at  three  distinct  and  different 
altars — the  first  being  a  worshipper  of  Mind,  the  second  a 
worshipper  of  Man,  and  the  third  a  worshipper  of  Mammon. 
The  worshipper  of  Mind  was  shrivelled,  the  worshipper  of 
Man  was  shrunken,  and  the  worshipper  of  Mammon  was 
swollen  and  red  of  face,  as  if  he  had  feasted  upon  the  sac 
rament  of  his  idol.  The  three  devotees  were  the  three 
principal  stockholders,  graduating  in  shares  from  the  wor 
shipper  of  Mind  up  to  the  worshipper  of  Mammon,  who 
could  have  bought  out  the  rest  of  the  company  at  a  bid. 
He  was  the  Great  Mogul  of  the  enterprise,  and  was  re 
spected  accordingly. 

Upon  Kyle's  right  hand  sat  Michael  Akershem,  his  brow 
black  and  frowning,  and  at  a  little  distance  Driscoll,  his 
chair  tilted  backward  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He 
may  not  have  been  bored,  but  such  was  his  expression. 

The  rest  of  the  company  consisted  of  the  many  men  that 
make  a  party.  The  aristocratic  element  was  represented 
by  Mr.  Douglas  Van  Houne,  who  had,  by  dint  of  unwearied 
application,  drunk  himself  out  of  the  Keeley  cure  and  into 
dypsomania ;  the  labor  element  by  Pat  McTibs,  who  was 


THE    DESCENDANT  127 

bricklayer  to  one  Watkins  Mark,  and  father  of  some  dozen 
children  now  inhabiting  the  city  poor-house.  McTibs  was 
an  honest  man,  and  had  been  content  to  earn  an  honest 
living  as  long  as  he  had  the  consolation  of  the  doctrines 
of  original  sin  and  predestination  to  sustain  him.  The 
yoke  of  dogma  had  kept  him  securely  in  the  path  of 
sobriety,  if  not  of  righteousness.  He  was  content  to  toil 
by  the  sweat  of  his  brow  and  wrestle  with  temptations 
as  long  as  such  conduct  warranted  him  the  privilege  of 
a  heavenly  seat  looking  hellward.  But  what  is  the  use 
of  keeping  to  the  narrow  path  if  our  neighbors  are  not 
damned  for  going  astray?  In  a  moment  of  missionary 
zeal  Kyle  had  succeeded  in  opening  McTibs's  eyes  to  the 
futility  of  things  hoped  for,  and  the  enormity  of  his  making 
an  honest  living  when  he  might  make  a  dishonest  one  in 
stead.  He  represented  to  him  the  beauty  of  Communism, 
that  blessed  state,  when  by  forking  out  your  own  penny 
you  may  pocket  your  neighbor's  shilling.  McTibs  realized 
that  Communism  was  the  one  thing  needful ;  the  road  to 
Communism  lay  in  throttling  Society.  He  attempted  to 
throttle  Society,  which  resulted  in  his  being  in  The  Icono 
clast  editorial  rooms  and  his  children  in  the  city  poor-house. 

As  for  his  wife — well,  Kyle  had  converted  her  also.  He 
had  persuaded  her  that  marriage  was  deceitful,  and  morality 
was  vain  ;  and,  being  persuaded,  she  had  hanged  herself. 

Who  shall  say  that  The  Iconoclast  had  not  a  purpose  to 
serve  ? 

Kyle  was  speaking  excitedly,  which  was  by  no  means 
unusual,  as  he  was  always  excited  and  generally  speaking. 
Driscoll  was  listening  languidly,  contorted  between  a  laugh 
and  a  yawn.  Semple  was  drumming  upon  the  table  with 
his  finger-tips  j  he  was  slightly  startled  and  somewhat  du 
bious  ;  once  he  had  interrupted  Kyle  to  say :  "  Be  temper 
ate,  my  dear  sir,  be  temperate !"  He  looked  as  a  child 
might  that  is  watching  a  toy  serpent  develop  into  a  boa- 
constrictor. 

"  We  are  standing  amidst  a  rotten  rubbish-heap,"  Kyle 


128  THE    DESCENDANT 

was  declaring,  enforcing  his  words  by  the  unrestrained  use 
of  his  forefinger.  "We  see  around  us  the  decaying  rem 
nants  of  Society,  a  monster  that  gorges  itself  upon  the 
blood  of  Labor!"  ("Hear!  hear!"  from  McTibs.)  "We 
see  a  foul  and  polluted  system  gradually  crumbling  to  dust ' 
It  is  for  us  to  complete  the  work  of  destruction — to  hurl, 
Prometheus-like,  a  dart  at  our  gigantic  foe !  To  wrestle 
with  the  dragon  until  it  is  overthrown  !  We  have  power  to 
check  its  bloody  course,  we  may  save  the  millions  that 
perish  yearly  beneath  this  social  juggernaut !"  ("  Be  tem 
perate,  my  dear  sir,  be  temperate  !"  from  Semple.)  "We 
see  wretchedness  and  poverty  and  crime  around  us,  and  for 
this  wretchedness,  this  poverty,  this  crime,,  Society  is  re 
sponsible!  For  all  the  evils  stalking  abroad  to-day,  evils 
glutted  with  human  lives,  preying  upon  the  rights  of  man 
hood — for  these  Society  must  be  held  to  a  strict  account ! 
We  see  nakedness  in  a  land  of  wealth  !  We  see  starvation  in 
a  land  of  plenty  !  We  have  shared  the  misery  of  the  multitude 
— our  hearts  are  withered,  the  springs  of  our  life  dry  and 
athirst !"  ("  Hear!  hear  !"  from  Mr.  Douglas  Van  Houne, 
who  was  aroused  from  a  pleasant  doze  by  the  word  thirst.) 

The  worshipper  of  Mind  had  risen,  and  was  standing, 
tall  and  gaunt,  before  the  table. 

"  Mr.  Kyle  is  an  enthusiast,"  he  said  ;  "  he  speaks  in  the 
language  of  poetry.  He  has  portrayed  our  social  condition 
in  gorgeous  word-painting,  not  in  the  cold,  bare  prose  of 
Science.  But — let  him  exaggerate  as  he  will — our  condition 
is  sufficiently  serious.  From  our  present  state  of  inequali 
ties  and  ignorance  there  is  but  one  broad,  upward  way  for 
humanity,  a  road  that  leads  from  the  depths  of  sin  and 
superstition  to  the  cool  heights  of  knowledge  and  demon 
strable  facts — there  is  such  a  road,  and  that  road  is  Science. 
Without  Science  we  should  never  have  left  the  Middle 
Ages.  Without  Science  we  should  still  be  trembling  before 
a  god  in  every  breeze,  preaching  persecution  and  damnation 
as  essential  principles.  There  is  but  one  salvation  for  man 
kind,  and  that  is—" 


THE   DESCENDANT  12$ 

"  Humanity !"  shrieked  the  worshipper  of  Man,  starting 
to  his  feet.  "  What  has  brought  us  forth  from  a  howling 
wilderness  of  beasts  into  civilization  and  liberty  ?  Human 
ity  !  What  has  restrained  us  from  feeding  man  upon  man, 
and  caused  us  to  stretch  forth  a  hand  of  human  fellowship  ? 
Humanity !  What  has  promoted  sympathy  and  philan 
thropy,  dotting  the  world  with  charitable  institutions,  pro 
tecting  the  weak  against  the  strong  ?  What,  I  say,  has  done 
this  ?" 

"  Nothing !"  shouted  Kyle,  suddenly  losing  his  head  and 
bringing  his  hand  down  upon  the  table  with  a  powerful 
crash. 

"  Science,"  said  the  worshipper  of  Mind,  in  a  hollow  tone. 

"  Religion,"  breathed  a  still,  small  voice  from  the  back 
ground. 

"  Wealth,"  responded  the  worshipper  of  Mammon. 

"I  ask:  What  has  done  this?"  repeated  the  worshipper 
of  Man,  "  and  I  answer  :  Humanity !  I  ask  the  name  of  the 
noblest  power  in  the  universe,  and  I  answer :  Humanity ! 
I  ask  what  has  led  us  forth  from  kinship  with  the  lion  and 
the  tiger,  and  made  us  lords  of  the  earth  and  master  of  the 
elements,  and  again  I  answer :  Humanity !  Of  all  the  at 
tributes  of  Humanity  the  greatest  is  Morality.  It  is  the 
fundamental  principle  underlying  progress — 

"  Morality,"  said  the  worshipper  of  Mammon,  "  is  in  the 
eye  of  the  beholder." 

The  high-priest  of  Humanity  went  smoothly  on  :  "  Moral 
ity  should  be  the  foundation-stone  of  all  government.  We 
will  eradicate  all  suggestions  of  our  origin.  We  will  rise, 
like  gods,  to  survey  the  path  of  our  ascent.  Behind  us  in 
our  progress  we  will  leave  all  save  the  noblest  attributes  of 
mankind.  From  the  world  we  will  sweep  all  wrong-doing, 
all  manner  of  sinfulness,  and  all  things  evil — " 

"  You  will  leave  us  nothing  to  live  for,"  said  Driscoll,  re 
proachfully.  "  Impropriety  is  the  spice  of  life." 

"  Mr.  Driscoll,"  returned  the  debater,  "  such  levity  is  in 
decent  ;  it  is  worse  than  indecent,  it  is  sacrilegious." 
9 


130  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  But  what  a  bore  the  world  was  before  the  Lord  tried 
his  hand  on  the  devil !"  ventured  Driscoll. 

"Sir,"  said  the  worshipper  of  Mind,  "worse  than  inde 
cency  is  ignorance.  Can  a  man  in  your  position,  in  this 
the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  speak  of  a  person  or  a 
devil  being  created '.?" 

"  No  more  hyperbole !"  exclaimed  the  worshipper  of 
Mammon,  smacking  his  lips,  and  seeming  suddenly  to  re 
turn  from  the  flesh-pots.  "What  I've  got  to  say  is  just 
this  :  this  paper  has  got  to  modify  principles  in  proportion 
to  its  subscription-list;  if  the  list  grows  smaller,  the  views 
have  got  to  go.  I've  a  pretty  little  sum  in  this  business, 
and  I  ain't  going  to  have  it  stuck  on  a  little  question  of 
opinion" 

"  Sir,"  said  the  worshipper  of  Man,  "  there  is  principle." 

"  Principle,"  responded  the  worshipper  of  Mammon,  wav 
ing  it  to  limbo,  "  is  all  very  well,  provided  you  choose  the 
principle  that  pays."  After  which  he  concluded  with  a 
vigorous  sweep. 

"  I  guess  I've  got  as  much  to  say  as  anybody  else,  and 
what  I  say  is  this :  if  there  is  any  row  of  that  sort,  I'll  sell 
out  at  a  sacrifice  and  put  my  capital  into  the  Sunday-School 
Missionary.  I've  been  considering  an  opportunity  for  the 
last  month." 

There  was  an  awe-struck  silence.  Mind,  personified  in 
its  representative,  shrank  to  nothingness ;  Man  withered 
past  resistance ;  Mammon  was  supreme. 

"  That's  all  I've  got  to  say,"  he  added,  moving  towards 
the  door,  "but  I  guess  it's  enough."  Then  he  went  out 
and  the  meeting  adjourned. 

Semple  laughed,  and  slapped  Akershem  upon  the  shoul 
der.  "  Your  disciples  have  outstripped  their  master,  eh, 
old  man  ?" 

"  They're  a  confounded  lot,"  answered  Akershem,  grimly. 
"  It's  no  easy  task  to  drive  a  team  that  pulls  in  opposite  di 
rections.  No  two  of  them  want  the  same  thing.'' 

"  And  not  one  of  them  knows  what  the  thing  is  that  he 


THE   DESCENDANT  131 

wants.  Every  man  is  chasing  a  shadow,  and  the  worst  of 
it  is  that  he  doesn't  know  of  what  it  is  the  shadow." 

Kyle  joined  them. 

"I've  been  telling  Mr.  Akershem,"  said  Semple  to  him, 
"that  moderation  is  the  leaven  we  need  to  balance  our 
measures.  Nothing  must  be  done  in  haste,  Mr.  Kyle." 

"  And  nothing  will  be  done  by  laggards,"  returned  Kyle, 
excitedly ;  then,  leaving  them,  he  made  a  descent  upon  a 
seedy  individual  moving  towards  the  door,  and  they  passed 
out,  arm  in  arm. 

"You'll  have  trouble  with  that  fellow  yet,"  said  Semple; 
"he's  a  fanatic,  pure  and  simple." 

"We'll  keep  him  down,"  returned  Michael,  laughing, 
but  he  went  off  with  the  warning  ringing  in  his  ears.  Long 
— long  afterwards  he  remembered  the  words,  and  sighed 
at  the  vanity  which  makes  us  value  such  warnings  only 
when  the  evil  has  overwhelmed  us  and  the  prophecy  is 
fulfilled. 

As  he  passed  Rachel's  door  that  night,  on  his  way  up 
stairs,  it  opened  and  she  came  out. 

"  I  heard  your  step,"  she  said,  making  him  a  low  courtesy, 
"  and — has  Sir  Pioneer  brought  his  lady  a  stone  in  place  of 
a  crown  ?" 

"He  has  brought  his  lady  a  heart,"  answered  Michael, 
softly,  and  he  caught  her  hands  and  held  her  from  him,  his 
eyes  glowing  with  the  sight  of  her.  The  dim  light  fell 
over  her  with  an  illusive  brightness,  shimmering  upon  her 
head  and  in  her  eyes.  With  her  she  brought  an  impression 
of  warmth,  as  though  her  gown  had  caught  its  hues  from  the 
flames  of  the  fire  she  had  left. 

Love  had  strangely  glorified  her;  she  was  supremely 
beautiful,  with  the  beauty  which  is  a  part  of  love — that 
great  transforming  power  which  evolves  an  Esther  from  a 
Jael,  a  Madonna  from  a  Magdalen. 

Michael  looked  at  her  in  breathless  ardor.  Love  quick 
ened  her  pulses  like  wine ;  it  sparkled  in  her  eyes,  it  quiv 
ered  upon  her  lips,  it  rippled  in  the  dimples  of  cheek  and 


132  THE   DESCENDANT 

brow ;  it  wrapped  her  about,  and  possessed  her  with  an  ex 
uberant  vitality. 

So  salient  it  was  that  it  startled  him,  and,  breaking  the 
silence,  he  drew  back.  "  I  am  not  worthy  to  touch  the  hem 
of  your  garment,"  he  said. 

With  a  swift  gesture  the  girl  clasped  her  hands  upon  his 
breast,  looking  into  his  face. 

"  You  are  the  breath  of  my  life,"  she  said.  "  My  hero  ! 
My  love !  My  idol !"  For  a  moment  he  trembled  before 
the  abnegation  in  her  eyes.  He  looked  into  them  and  saw 
his  own  image,  dominant,  supreme.  He  held  her  heart  in 
the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and  he  knew  it.  For  a  moment  he 
hesitated,  awed  by  the  sublimity  of  her  passion.  Then  he 
flung  his  arms  about  her,  gathering  her  to  his  breast.  "  My 
beauty  and  my  beloved  !"  he  said.  He  kissed  her  hotly, 
passionately,  with  a  sudden  abandonment  of  self-restraint ; 
and  Rachel,  who  would  have  been  stung  by  the  delicate  touch 
of  another  man,  flushed  into  an  exquisite  ecstasy  beneath  the 
storm  of  his  kisses.  Insensible  to  all  other  love,  she  was  as 
wax  to  the  fire  of  his. 

"  I  adore  you !"  he  said — "  I  adore  you  !" 

And  perhaps  he  did.     Who  knows  ? 


CHAPTER   II 

MR.  DANIEL  O'CONNELL  KYLE  had  entered  upon  life 
handicapped  by  limited  prospects  and  an  illustrious  name. 
In  his  own  mind  there  existed  an  uncertainty  as  to  which 
had  most  hampered  him— the  name,  which  he  was  not  able 
to  live  up  to,  or  the  prospects,  which  he  was  not  able  to  live 
beyond.  Besides  these  major  disabilities,  which  might  have 
been  ascribed  to  the  inscrutableness  of  a  dispensing  Prov 
idence,  there  were  minor  difficulties  which  an  experienced 
eye  might  have  traced  to  the  agency  of  a  discerning  Satan. 
The  chastenings  of  the  Lord  and  the  aggravations  of  the 
devil  were  so  opportune  in  their  concurrence  that,  to  an  un 
holy  mind,  it  suggested  a  secret  understanding  between  the 
parties.  It  was  as  if  Providence  and  Satan  were  in  league 
for  his  undoing. 

Kyle  the  elder,  of  whom  history  makes  no  mention  be 
cause  it  discounts  possibilities,  was  a  man  of  great  promise 
and  small  fulfilment.  The  only  ability  which  he  ever  cul 
tivated  was  an  ability  to  get  into  trouble,  combined  with  an 
equal  ability  to  stay  there.  A  friend,  who  stood  bail  for 
him  upon  a  number  of  appearances  in  the  police  court,  was 
heard  to  remark  upon  the  last  occasion  that  if  there  was  a 
clear  road  ahead  of  him  and  a  row  around  the  corner,  Kyle 
would  land  in  the  row,  an  assertion  which  that  gentleman 
accepted  as  a  tribute  to  his  daring.  He  was  born  in  Ire 
land,  and  would  probably  have  died  there  had  Fenianism 
been  permitted  to  flourish  upon  its  native  soil.  But  with 
the  suppression  of  that  movement  he  followed  in  the  foot 
steps  of  Mitchel  and  landed  in  America,  a  dashing  young 
patriot,  with  melting  eyes  and  a  persuasive  eloquence  of 


134  THE    DESCENDANT 

tongue.  Having  considered  right  at  home,  he  preferred  to 
consider  might  abroad,  and  accordingly  offered  his  services 
for  the  invasion  of  the  South.  After  the  war  he  settled  in 
New  York,  and,  having  still  the  eyes  and  the  tongue,  he  took 
u-nto  himself  a  wife  of  German  parentage — a  step  which  re 
sulted  from  the  contact  of  his  own  palate  with  a  dish  of 
cutlets  belonging  to  the  lady  of  his  choice.  On  the  whole, 
the  marriage  was  commonplace.  Given  two  tempers  and 
the  time,  the  ordinary  marriage  produces  anarchy,  and 
Kyle's  was  by  no  means  an  exception.  From  bad  it  be 
came  worse,  and  backsliding  followed  upon  bickering.  His 
wife  had  a  way  that  was  painful  to  others  if  pleasant  to 
herself,  and  Kyle  was  driven  to  solace  himself  at  the  only 
hospitable  spot  in  the  neighborhood,  which  chanced  to  be 
a  beer  saloon.  He  grew  stout  and  husky  and  red  of  face, 
and,  in  time,  lost  all  resemblance  to  the  dashing  young 
Fenian  of  '58.  But  the  Old  Country  dwelt  in  his  heart,  and 
he  never  drank  a  toast  that  did  not  embrace  "  Ould  Ire 
land  "  and  his  fellow -rioters.  Then  when  his  son  came, 
his  heart  leaped  in  memory  of  the  silver-tongued  O'Connell, 
and  he  had  given  the  child  his  name.  The  little  Daniel 
wrought  no  change  in  the  slovenly  household.  He  remem 
bered  a  home  whose  chief  factor  was  unpleasantness,  and 
the  one  bright  spot  was  his  father's  improvident  generosity. 
The  young  child  was  fed  upon  tales  of  the  daring  rescue  of 
Kelly  and  the  romantic  adventures  of  John  Mitchel,  and 
he  waxed  fierce  upon  the  strong  meat  of  Fenianism.  There 
were  brain  pictures  of  a  lighted  saloon  and  glimpses  of 
rough-voiced  men  hushed  into  silence  while  his  father  stood 
upon  a  flour-barrel  in  their  midst.  The  rich  Irish  brogue 
had  thrilled  the  boy  as  it  thrilled  the  exiles  about  him,  and 
the  sham  passion  had  awakened  a  real  passion  in  his  own 
breast. 

The  elder  Kyle  knew  his  power,  and  he  made  it  felt. 
The  flour-barrel  became  a  patch  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  and 
he  a  patriot  declaiming  his  allegiance.  There  was  fire  still 
in  the  melting  glance,  and  grace  in  the  ranting  gestures. 


THE    DESCENDANT  135 

"  They  are  slaves  who  fear  to  speak 
For  the  fallen  and  the  weak  ; 
They  are  slaves  who  would  not  choose 
Hatred,  scoffing,  and  abuse 
Rather  than  in  silence  shrink 
From  the  truth  they  needs  must  think ; 
They  are  slaves  who  dare  not  be 
In  the  right  with  two  or  three  !" 

And  beneath  the  melting  eyes  the  boy  had  chosen  to  be 
in  the  right  with  one,  and  that  one  his  father. 

So  much  for  Irish  eloquence  and  Irish  eyes. 

As  he  grew  to  manhood  his  father  died,  leaving  him  still 
in  the  right,  but  alone.  The  next  five  years  were  spent  in 
an  unprovoked  onslaught  upon  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
devil.  One  disadvantage  of  being  in  the  right  is  that  one 
has  not  the  devil  for  an  ally,  an  individual  who,  if  an  im 
placable  foe,  is  the  most  influential  of  friends. 

With  a  singular  disinterestedness,  Kyle  undertook  to  re 
adjust  the  eternal  order  of  things  to  his  personal  satisfac 
tion.  He  was  burning  with  the  zeal  of  wholesome  reforma 
tion,  and  prepared  to  grant  no  quarter  to  the  iniquities 
that  were,  and  that,  despite  such  energetic  reorganizers, 
forever  should  be,  since  iniquity  is  only  less  omnipotent 
than  Providence.  After  a  season  of  public  abuse  his  zeal 
diminished  for  lack  of  wherewithal  upon  which  to  survive. 
Upon  a  closer  inspection  he  became  less  ready  to  sacrifice 
himself  for  the  general  good.  He  decided  to  forego  the 
cup  of  martyrdom  and  to  leave  men  tc  wrangle  over  their 
petty  quarrels  among  themselves.  Poverty,  that  inexorable 
throttler  of  ambition,  checkmated  his  individual  exertions. 
With  the  demand  of  his  stomach  the  appeal  of  his  brain 
was  disregarded.  For  a  time  he  existed,  as  it  were,  upon 
the  Irish  question,  but  even  the  Irish  question  becomes  ex 
hausted  ;  and  when  he  endeavored  to  supply  the  demand 
by  drawing  upon  his  imagination,  it  cost  him  his  position. 

Then  his  energies  were  expended  in  the  effort  to  keep 
his  head  above  the  quagmire  of  a  submerged  humanity. 


136  THE    DESCENDANT 

He  gravitated  to  a  neighborhood  upon  the  east  side,  liter 
ally  the  centre  of  the  level  of  decency,  and  by  slow  stages 
ascended  from  the  first  to  the  twelfth  landing.  He  had 
learned  by  this  time  that  the  public  has  prepared  a  sacrificial 
altar  upon  its  own  account,  and  that  the  inclinations  of  the 
victim  are  seldom  consulted. 

From  his  twelfth-story  attic  Kyle  looked  down  upon  the 
human  comedy,  and  his  heart  withered  at  the  sight.  When 
one  is  compressed  into  a  writhing  mass  with  mankind  one 
is  apt  to  lose  a  good  deal  of  altruism,  drop  by  drop.  Ethical 
philosophers  are  found  among  those  who  are  well  off  in 
this  world's  necessaries,  and,  consequently,  at  leisure  to  ar 
range  for  the  luxuries  of  the  next.  A  doctrine  of  endurance 
flows  easily  from  our  lips  when  we  are  enduring  jam  and 
our  neighbors  dry  bread,  and  it  is  still  possible  for  us  to 
become  resigned  to  the  afflictions  of  our  brother. 

As  an  antidote  to  circumstances  Kyle  took  to  opium. 
Borrowed  illusions  are  better  than  none,  and  when  one  has 
not  food  one  might  as  well  have  fancies. 

From  his  father  he  had  inherited  the  silver  tongue  and 
eyes  like  melting  suns,  and  upon  Saturday  afternoon  he 
exerted  his  eloquence  upon  the  idlers  swarming  the  public 
squares.  He  became  quite  a  power  in  a  small  way,  re 
ducing  a  mob  to  silence  or  inciting  it  to  frenzy  by  the  force 
of  his  speech.  It  was  a  ranting  oratory,  but  it  did  damage 
among  the  people,  and  for  a  time  he  occupied  the  post  of 
public  divinity. 

Then  came  the  great  railway  strike,  and  he  got  mixed 
with  it  in  some  unaccountable  manner.  His  utterances, 
the  result  of  too  little  food  and  too  much  opium,  drew  upon 
him  the  attention  of  law  and  order,  personified  in  the  po 
lice,  and  he  was  commanded  to  keep  silent  in  public  places. 
They  might  as  well  have  ordered  Niagara  to  become  still 
water ;  speech  was  as  necessary  to  Kyle  as  rain  to  a  burst 
ing  cloud.  He  continued  to  speak  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
and  his  speech  was  loud  indeed.  One  evening  in  Union 
Square,  as  he  stood  declaiming  to  a  growing  audience,  a 


THE    DESCENDANT  137 

sudden  tremor  shook  the  crowd,  and  some  one  beside  him 
called  out  a  sharp  warning : 

"  The  cops  are  arter  you  !" 

His  defiance  grew  bolder,  and  he  was  opening  his  mouth 
to  retort  when  he  felt  his  arm  seized  of  a  sudden  and  him 
self  drawn  upon  the  sidewalk. 

"  Are  you  a  fool  ?"  demanded  his  captor.  He  looked  up, 
seeing  a  strong,  thick-set  man,  with  an  ugly,  rough-featured 
face  and  a  mop  of  coarse  dark  hair.  Kyle  shook  him  off ; 
then  something  in  the  man's  personality  overmastered  him. 

"  No,  I  am  not,"  he  answered. 

"  It's  a  pity  you  don't  prove  it,"  retorted  the  other.  He 
lifted  his  hat,  running  his  hand  impatiently  through  his 
hair.  His  eyes  narrowed  until  they  flickered  between  his 
blinking  lids  like  shafts  of  yellow  light. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  he  asked. 

Kyle  opened  his  mouth  to  say  "  It's  none  of  your  busi 
ness,"  but  the  man  smiled,  and  he  changed  his  mind  and 
said,  simply  :  "  Daniel  Kyle." 

"  Ah !  the  same  who  applied  for  work  at  the  office  of 
The  Iconoclast '?" 

"The  same." 

"  You  are  out  of  employment  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  man  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  nervous  in 
tensity.  Then  he  spoke  brusquely.  "  That's  all,"  he  said. 
"  Go  home  and  keep  quiet." 

Kyle  had  turned  away,  but  his  name  was  called  after 
him  and  he  paused.  The  man  was  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  My  name  is  Akershem,"  he  said ;  and  added,  "  You 
sha'n't  be  idle  long.  I  have  work  for  you.  I'll  look  you 
up.  Yes,  I  have  your  address."  And,  with  an  abrupt  nod, 
he  left  him. 

Kyle  climbed  up  to  his  attic,  and,  upon  the  strength  of 
the  contingency,  ate  the  bread  and  cheese  which  he  had 
been  saving  for  to-morrow's  breakfast. 

"  I  register  a  vow,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  that  if  ever  I 


138  THE    DESCENDANT 

have  as  much  as  fifty  cents  to  spend  on  a  single  meal  I 
won't  have  a  piece  of  cheese  in  smelling  distance."  After 
which  he  threw  himself  upon  the  bed,  and  decided  upon 
the  number  of  dishes  he  would  order  had  he  the  ordering 
of  a  dinner.  He  had  gotten  as  far  as  lobster  salad  when  the 
thought  of  Akershem  caused  him  to  square  up  suddenly. 

"  If  he  keeps  his  word  Til  be  delivered  from  bondage. 
I'll  be  free !  free !"  And  he  hurrahed  in  his  ecstasy,  until 
a  little  seamstress  living  across  the  hall  sent  in  to  inform 
him  that  the  baby  was  down  with  measles. 

As  for  Akershem,  he  was  convinced  that  in  discovering 
Kyle  he  had  discovered  the  link  uniting  The  Iconoclast  with 
the  working  world.  A  man  who  was  at  once  a  power  with 
the  people  and  a  disciple  of  himself  he  had  long  looked 
for,  and  in  Kyle's  eloquence  he  believed  that  he  had  found 
a  telling  weapon.  For  himself,  his  natural  reserve  and  the 
engrossing  nature  of  his  employment  put  all  such  personal 
ambition  out  of  the  question. 

It  was  with  a  certain  enthusiasm  that  he  set  out  some 
days  later  to  look  up  his  promising  subject,  and,  indeed,  had 
his  enthusiasm  been  less,  the  search  might  well  have  dis 
sipated  it.  A  fastidious  aversion  to  ill-kept  surroundings, 
together  with  an  inherited  feeling  of  kinship  to  the  inhabi 
tants  of  such  surroundings,  had  served  to  raise  the  editor 
of  The  Iconoclast  above  the  class  into  which  he  had  been 
born,  and  his  repugnance  to  these  classes  was  increased  by 
the  very  nearness  of  the  relationship.  For  the  men  who 
have  least  sympathy  with  ignorance  are  the  men  who,  by 
their  individual  efforts,  have  raised  themselves  above  it,  as 
the  men  who  are  the  most  unmerciful  to  evil-doers  are 
those  who  have  lived  down  evil  in  themselves. 

The  dirt,  the  squalor,  the  terrible  lack  of  ventilation,  op 
pressed  him  with  the  old  sense  of  indecency.  It  was  as 
though  a  man,  inhaling  the  stale  odor  of  decaying  vege 
tables  and  hearkening  to  the  distracting  clamor  of  guttural 
voices,  must  become  isolated,  by  mere  lack  of  self-respect, 
from  all  respectability. 


THE   DESCENDANT  139 

Reaching  the  tenement  where  Kyle  lived,  Michael  as 
cended  to  the  twelfth  landing  and  knocked  at  the  door 
upon  the  right.  The  door  chanced  to  be  the  wrong  one. 
It  was  opened  by  the  little  seamstress,  who  informed  him 
that  a  gentleman  of  the  name  he  mentioned  lived  across 
the  hall.  "  But  if  he  owes  you  anything,  I  guess  you'd  best 
call  again,"  she  added.  "The  poor  young  gentleman  has 
been  hard  up  of  late." 

Michael  crossed  the  hall  and  knocked  at  the  door  desig 
nated.  "  Come  in  !"  called  a  voice,  and  he  entered. 

At  first  he  was  conscious  only  of  lack  of  space  and  a 
curious  oppression.  Then  his  eyes  cleared  of  the  smoke, 
and  he  saw  that  the  room  was  bare  and  squalid,  with  broken 
window-panes  and  blackened  walls.  Upon  a  small  pine 
table  in  the  centre  a  newspaper  was  spread,  and  upon  the 
newspaper  a  knife,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  a  bit  of  cheese.  An 
empty  beer -bottle  stood  upon  the  chair.  A  spasmodic 
seizure  of  emotion  caused  Michael  to  turn  quickly  in  search 
of  Kyle.  The  sudden  leaping  of  his  pulse  was  almost  pain 
ful  in  its  intensity,  and  he  cleared  his  throat  before  speak 
ing.  Kyle  had  risen  from  the  bed  upon  which  he  had  been 
sitting,  and  was  standing,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  before  him,  a 
curious  mixture  of  pride  and  humility  upon  his  face. 

'•'I  lost  no  time  in  looking  you  up,"  said  Michael.  "I 
wanted  you  immediately."  A  vague  wonder  as  to  what  he 
could  put  him  to  immediately  caused  him  to  repeat,  with 
additional  emphasis  as  he  glanced  about  the  room,  "  Im 
mediately." 

"Yes,"  responded  Kyle,  with  an  awkward  embarrass 
ment,  "yes."  His  own  power  of  speech  had  deserted  him, 
and  all  the  time  he  was  telling  himself  that  it  was  the  op 
portunity  of  his  life.  "Yes,"  he  repeated  again.  Michael 
laid  his  hand  upon  his  arm  with  a  gesture  that  would  have 
astonished  Driscoll  in  its  cordiality. 

"I  like  you,  Mr.  Kyle,"  he  said,  "and  if  you  stay  in  this 
place  it  sha'n't  be  my  fault ;  we'll  settle  about  terms  later, 
but  now — "  and  his  mouth  relaxed  beneath  the  warmth  of 


140  THE    DESCENDANT 

his  speech.  "  Come  with  me,"  he  said ;  "  I'll  put  you  up 
for  a  day  or  two."  Even  as  he  spoke  he  was  surprised  at 
his  own  impetuosity,  and  because  he  was  surprised  he  clung 
to  it  with  his  natural  doggedness.  "  I'll  find  room  for  you 
with  me,"  he  repeated. 

Kyle  put  up  his  hand  with  a  bewildered  gesture.  "  I — I 
don't  understand,"  he  stammered  ;  "you  may  give  me  work, 
but — but  I  am  a  beggar.  I  haven't  a  cent.  I — " 

Michael  broke  in  brusquely.  "  I  have  been  there,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  know  all  about  it.  I  have  eaten  a  crust  that 
a  dog  would  pass  by." 

"  You — you  are  very  generous,"  said  Kyle,  gently.  "  It 
— it  does  not  seem  like  you.  I  don't  know  what  it  means." 

Michael  laughed  with  a  sudden  boyish  mirth.  "  Pshaw  !" 
he  exclaimed,  "it  means  that  I  have  been  there,  my  dear 
fellow."  Then  he  looked  at  his  watch.  "We'll  dine  in 
half  an  hour,"  he  said,  "  and  then  to  business." 

Kyle  put  on  his  coat,  took  up  his  hat,  and  followed  him 
into  the  hall.  Upon  the  threshold  of  the  room  he  paused 
to  look  back  upon  the  poverty  from  which  he  believed  him 
self  passing  forever.  Standing  there  in  his  picturesque  at 
titude,  with  his  beautiful  eyes  lingering  upon  the  squalid 
attic,  he  might  have  been  an  artistic  spirit  breathing  an  in 
vocation,  instead  of  a  material  body  buoyant  with  release. 

"  Good-bye  to  dirt  and  cheese  !"  he  exclaimed,  hilarious 
ly.  His  wild  Irish  spirits  had  returned ;  it  was  like  return 
ing  to  life  from  the  grave.  With  an  unrestrained  delight  he 
slipped  his  arm  within  Michael  Akershem's.  "  I  am  a  man 
again,"  he  said.  And  together  they  descended  the  narrow 
stairs  and  passed  out  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER  III 

DRISCOLL  met  Akershem  at  the  corner  of  Fifteenth  Street 
and  Broadway. 

"  Shem,"  he  began,  "  is  this  thing  true  ?"  He  looked 
worried,  and  his  whimsical  manner  seemed  half  assumed. 

Michael  shambled  beside  him  in  silence.  Then  he  spoke 
with  a  slow  indifference. 

"What?"  he  asked.  "Has  Van  Houne  drunk  himself 
to  death,  or  has  Mr.  Mushington  sold  out?"  As  Driscoll 
looked  at  him  he  blushed,  the  nervous  blinking  of  his  lids 
growing  faster,  and  the  flame  of  his  glance  mellowing  like 
the  flame  of  a  shaded  lamp.  "What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  de 
manded,  more  seriously. 

The  other  spoke  with  an  awkward  hesitancy.  "  I  mean 
this  story  about  you  and  Miss  Gavin.  Is  it  true  ?  Is 
she—" 

"  It  is  a  lie  !"  broke  in  Michael,  hotly.  •'  Whatever  it  is, 
it  is  a  lie.  Only  lies  are  worth  repeating."  Beneath  the 
cool,  keen  gaze  his  affected  carelessness  gave  way. 

Driscoll  spoke  next. 

"  Is  it  true  that  she— she  loves  you  ?"  he  asked.  Even 
as  he  questioned  he  smiled— a  slow,  cynical  smile — at  his 
own  concern. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  it  is  true  that  she  would  make  a  fool  of  herself 
for  you,"  he  said,  angrily.  "  Good  God  i  a  woman  in  love 
is  as  helpless  as  a  babe  unborn.  If  the  man  is  a  scoundrel 
he  can  make  her  swear  that  black  is  white— and  believe  it." 

Michael  winced. 

"  The  more  unselfish  a  woman  is,"  continued  Driscoll, 
ruthlessly,  "  the  easier  it  is  for  a  man  to  shoulder  his  sin 


142  THE    DESCENDANT 

upon  her.  A  noble  woman  has  made  many  a  man  a  black 
guard."  He  paused  abruptly,  and  then,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  tone,  went  on  again,  laying  one  muscular  hand 
upon  Michael's  arm.  "  Shem,  listen  to  me.  Give  up  this 
infernal  nonsense.  Call  it  what  you  will,  your  fight  against 
conventions  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  fight  against 
morality.  Men  aren't  so  good  that  they  should  be  allowed 
full  liberty  to  do  evil ;  it  would  be  pretty  sure  to  end  in 
their  doing  it.  Give  it  up.  If  not  for  your  own  sake,  for — 
Rachel  Gavin." 

"  Don't !  don't !"  pleaded  Michael,  feebly. 

"  Marry  her  if  she  will  marry  you,  and  thank  God  that 
you  weren't  a  born  fool.  It  isn't  every  man  that  has  pearls 
cast  in  the  mire  at  his  feet." 

"  Driscoll,  there  is  principle." 

"  Principle  !"  His  laugh  cut  like  steel.  "  The  only  use 
some  people  make  of  their  principles  is  to  sacrifice  other 
people  to  them." 

"Driscoll!" 

"  Oh,  call  it  principle  if  you  choose.  It  sounds  better 
than  selfishness  and  means  about  the  same.  As  long  as  it 
pleases  you  to  trample  upon  the  woman  who  loves  you  in 
an  insane  desire  to  benefit  those  who  spit  upon  you,  go 
ahead.  When  the  romantic  side  of  being  spit  upon  has 
palled  upon  you,  you'll  turn  and  go  backwards;  but" — 
and  he  set  his  teeth  firmly — "  a  man  never  learns  that  he's 
a  fool  except  by  experience,  and  to  learn  by  experience 
means  to  learn  too  late !" 

"  Stop,  Driscoll !  There  are  some  things  I'll  not  take 
even  from  you.  I — " 

"  You  will  not  take  the  truth,"  responded  Driscoll.  "  And 
if  you  don't,  you'll  never  get  it  from  anybody  else."  Then 
he  left  him  and  boarded  a  passing  car. 

Michael  turned  and  walked  homeward.  His  head  was 
bent,  and  as  he  passed  rapidly  along  a  confused  tangle  of 
thought  seemed  to  whirl  within  his  brain.  Even  amidst  the 
hurrying  crowd,  rendered  buoyant  by  the  first  smack  of 


THE    DESCENDANT  143 

frost,  there  were  some  who  turned  to  follow  his  moving 
figure,  arrested  by  the  salient  individuality  of  the  man.  In 
the  very  ugliness  of  his  roughly  hewn  profile  there  was  a 
terrible  suggestion  of  power. 

Remote  and  far  off,  across  the  graded  rows  of  blackened 
chimney-pots,  across  the  fevered,  restless  city,  a  gray  haze 
was  rising,  like  dew,  upon  the  gorgeous  rose-garden  of  the 
west.  Awhile  since  its  colors  had  dazzled  the  vision  with 
their  roseate  splendor,  paining  the  senses  with  the  tran 
scendence  of  human  conception.  Now  the  rose  was  fad 
ing  into  gray,  the  flame  into  ashes  ;  but  one  fleeting  vestige 
remained  of  its  opulent  bloom. 

Michael  raised  his  head  and  looked  westward.  He  was 
eager  and  elated.  The  slight  shadow  cast  upon  his  self- 
complacency  by  the  meeting  with  Driscoll  had  departed ; 
his  good-humor  reasserted  itself,  and  he  smiled  slightly  as 
he  hurried  through  the  streets. 

All  else  had  faded  before  him,  submerged  in  the  thought 
— Rachel  loved  him  !  He  had  been  ill-used  and  desperate, 
but  Rachel  loved  him  !  His  life  had  been  a  battle;  he  had 
lived  and  hated  as  other  men  had  lived  and  loved ;  he  had 
toiled  while  children  played  ;  he  had  warred  while  men  had 
slept ;  he  had  known  despair  and  degradation,  but — Rachel 
loved  him ! 

Like  a  star  the  thought  of  Rachel  seemed  moving  on  be 
fore  him,  shining  above  his  way,  shedding  its  white  light 
down  upon  the  mire  where  he  trod.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  revelled  in  the  ecstasy  of  loving,  which  is  as  far 
beyond  the  ecstasy  of  being  loved  as  the  star  is  beyond  the 
moth. 

All  the  weight  of  years  fell  from  him,  all  memory  of  that 
stretch  of  time  when  his  bread  had  been  bitterness  and  his 
heart  the  temple  of  wrath.  He  forgot  the  things  that  had 
been,  his  revolt  from  the  things  that  were,  and  his  repining 
over  the  things  that  might  have  been.  He  knew  only  that 
a  wonderful  change  had  swept  over  him,  something  terrible 
and  new,  which  sent  the  warm  blood  to  his  pulses  and  a 


144 


THE   DESCENDANT 


sudden  scarlet  exaltation  to  his  brain.  He  was  lost  in 
amazement  at  the  state  which  men  call  happiness,  and  for 
which  he  had  never  been  in  need  of  a  name. 

He  stopped  and  gave  money  to  a  beggar  upon  the  side 
walk — a  wretched  creature  in  a  threadbare  shawl,  who 
ground  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  out  of  a  broken  music-box. 
He  spoke  to  her  kindly,  and  when  she  whined  "God  bless 
you !"  he  turned  and  gave  to  her  again.  Even  the  blessing 
of  God — granting  there  was  a  God — seemed  not  unbefitting 
his  mental  altitude.  For  his  birthright,  for  his  bitterness, 
and  for  his  bloody  tears  he  might  extend  and  receive  the 
forgiveness  of  God.  Yes,  he  would  be  willing  to  come  to 
terms  with  God  at  last. 

He  passed  on,  the  discordant  tune  following  him  along 
the  block.  He  bought  The  Herald  at  the  corner.  He 
wanted  to  take  the  little  newsboy  by  the  hand  and  tell  him 
that  life  was  beautiful ;  but  he  felt  that  the  little  newsboy 
would  not  understand,  so  he  took  his  paper  and  went  upon 
his  way.  And  when  the  boy  ran  after  him,  crying,  "  Here's 
The  Iconoclast,  sir,"  he  bought  it  to  recall  what  he  had 
thought  and  said  yesterday  about  the  eternal  unfitness  of 
the  universe.  Then  he  we/it  into  the  florist's,  buying  violets 
for  Rachel,  feeling  a  thrill  as  he  took  the  box  in  his  hand, 
knowing  that  all  her  sweet  life  through  he,  and  he  alone, 
might  lavish  them  upon  her. 

Rachel  met  him  upon  the  landing. 

As  he  mounted  the  stairs  he  saw  her  face  smiling  down 
upon  him,  and  he  thought  of  the  evening-star  in  the  after 
glow  without. 

She  wore  a  closely  fitting  gown  of  filmy  black  that  clung 
about  her  like  a  cloud,  showing  to  perfection  the  ivory 
white  of  her  throat,  the  dark  of  her  heavy  brows.  Her 
eyes  narrowed  as  she  saw  him,  with  a  wistful  contraction 
of  the  pupils  implying  gravity. 

"  Why,  Rachel,"  he  said,  "  have  you  been  crying  ?"  There 
was  an  inflection  of  reproach  in  his  voice  which  she  met 
smilingly,  keeping  with  an  effort  the  nervous  corners  of 


THE    DESCENDANT  145 

her  mouth  at  rest.  He  took  her  hand,  and  together  they 
passed  into  her  studio. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "we  will  have  the  truth  and  the 
whole  truth."  His  natural  peremptoriness  of  manner  as 
serted  itself,  as  it  always  did  when  his  acquired  civility  was 
checkmated.  There  was  much  truth  in  Rachel's  assertion 
that  at  heart  he  was  a  despot. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  protested  Rachel. 

"The  whole  truth,"  repeated  Michael. 

He  spoke  authoritatively,  but  he  stooped  and  kissed  her 
lips  as  she  smiled  up  at  him.  With  a  return  of  vivacity 
the  girl  laughed  and  yielded. 

"  It  is  only  a  visitor,"  she  said. 

"  A  visitor,"  repeated  Michael,  the  word  suggesting  the 
best  parlor  in  the  farmer's  cottage,  and  possibilities  of 
severe-minded  ladies  in  sunbonnets. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  know  Miss  Serina  Parks  ?"  She 
tilted  her  head  sideways  with  a  fascinating  abandon. 

Michael  disclaimed  that  honor.  "  Don't  do  that,"  he 
said,  "  or  you'll  make  me  kiss  you." 

Higher  went  her  eyebrows  and  farther  aside  the  little 
head.  "How  can  I  tell  you  if  you  behave  so  badly?"  she 
asked.  Perhaps  I  sha'n't  tell  you,  after  all." 

"  I  do  not  know  Miss  Parks." 

She  laughed  delightfully.  "  Lucky  fellow !"  she  exclaimed. 
"Never  say,  Mike,  that  your  cup  of  misery  is  complete. 
As  long  as  Providence  might  have  made  Miss  Serina 
known  to  you  and  did  not,  it  has  reserved  one  misfortune 
for  the  future." 

"  But  who  is  she  ?" 

"  A  lady  who  handles  the  Ten  Commandments  with  care, 
and  collects  the  fragments  that  her  neighbors  have  shat 
tered.  She  is  a  missionary — that  is,  she  confines  her  at 
tentions  exclusively  to  the  unregenerate.  She  visits  eter 
nally.  I'm  sure  if  she  ever  reaches  heaven  she  will  be 
continually  making  return  trips  to  hell.5'  Then  she  seized 
his  arms,  turning  her  eyes  full  upon  him.  "  She  only  visits 


j46  THE    DESCENDANT 

the  unregenerate,"  she  said,  slowly,  "and— she  visited — 
me!" 

With  a  sob  she  finished,  hiding  her  face  against  his 
shoulder.  Michael  clasped  her  with  a  passionate  tender- 
Bess,  the  lamps  suddenly  alight  in  his  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Rachel  ?  My  darling,  what  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"I  didn't  understand  until  she  came,"  said  the  girl,  still 
slowly  and  distinctly.  "  1  didn't  know  that  they  said  cruel 
things  about  me.  I  thought  they  just  let  me  alone.  But 
she  carries  tuberoses  to  all  sorts  of  wicked  women.  She 
never  carries  them  to  good  women — never — never ;  but  she 
brought  them  to  me.  She  only  prays  with  bad  women,  but 
she  wanted  to  pray  with  me."  She  threw  her  head  back 
with  a  disdainful  gesture.  "It  is  weakness,"  she  said,  "I 
oughtn't  to  care,  but  I  can't  help  caring — a  little." 

"  Tuberoses  !"  exclaimed  Michael,  savagely,  as  though  the 
enormity  of  the  offence  consisted  in  the  choice  of  blos 
soms.  "  She  dared  to  bring  you  tuberoses  !"  Like  a  yellow 
flame  the  rage  in  his  eyes  leaped  forth.  "  It  is  a  dastardly 
insult !"  he  cried.  Then  he  looked  at  Rachel  as  she 
stood  before  him,  and  a  wonderful  softening  passed  over 
his  face.  He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  "  My  lady," 
he  said.  There  was  a  reverence  in  his  voice  that  she  had 
never  heard  before— a  new  tone  which  thrilled  her  strange 
ly.  "  Are  you  afraid  ?"  he  asked. 

And  she  answered,  "  I  am  afraid  of  nothing  with — "  She 
hesitated. 

"  With  me,"  he  finished.  His  eyes  warmed,  and  he  fol 
lowed  with  his  touch  the  line  of  hair  as  it  defined  her  white 
forehead. 

"  I  did  not  say  it,"  she  protested. 

"  But  you  thought  it !" 

"  Sir  Audacity !" 

Her  glance  dazzled  him.  He  put  out  his  hand  in  sudden 
bewilderment. 

"  How  you  love  me !"  he  said. 


THE   DESCENDANT  147 

It  was  that  winter  that  Akershem  said  he  began  to  live. 
Until  then  he  had  struggled  for  existence  in  a  desultory, 
hand-to-mouth  fashion.  The  meeting  with  Rachel  was  the 
genesis  of  his  soul.  She  weaned  him  from  his  melancholia 
so  skilfully  that  he  was  unconscious  that  it  had  been  done. 
She  infused  a  share  of  her  own  light-heartedness  into  him. 
She  herself  was  so  vitally  alert,  so  buoyant  with  the  essence 
of  youth  and  life,  that  optimism  was  infectious.  And  with 
her  optimism  was  a  quality,  not  a  conception.  It  pervaded 
her  whole  organism  ;  through  it  she  looked  upon  the  ex 
ternal  world,  by  its  light  she  read  the  fulfilment  of  her  own 
aspirations. 

"There  is  such  a  change  in  you,  Mike,1'  Rachel  had  said 
one  day;  "you  really  look  like  a  gentleman." 

"  I  wish  only  to  look  like  a  man,"  retorted  Michael,  in 
sistently;  but  he  wore  his  hair  shorter,  nevertheless.  He 
was  happy,  or  believed  himself  to  be,  which  is  perhaps  as 
near  as  any  of  us  come  to  the  presence  of  a  mirage.  Hap 
piness  is  a  term  which  we  use  as  we  use  heaven — the  evi 
dence  of  a  state  neither  seen  nor  felt. 

But  so  long  as  we  have  faith  in  our  fairy  tales  we  are 
none  the  worse.  It  is  the  awakening  that  shows  us  the 
fevered  eye  and  quivering  pulse,  the  wages  of  our  ecstatic 
delirium.  In  fairy  tales  the  dragon  is  always  slain  and  the 
good  triumphant,  and  love,  if  we  wait  long  enough,  will 
transform  the  beast.  In  real  life — but  which  is  the  real 
and  which  is  the  fairy  tale  ? 

They  were  happy  in  their  life  together  that  winter. 
Rachel  had  put  her  palette  and  her  brushes  by.  She  did 
not  shed  tears  now.  There  was  a  terrible  satisfaction  in 
being  able  to  bring  her  ambition  and  her  art  bound  and 
prostrate  before  her  love. 

She  could  see  Michael  standing  in  her  studio,  his  shadow 
falling  upon  her  unfinished  picture,  and  she  could  smile  as 
a  woman  smiles  who  has  found  the  man  who  has  mastered 
her.  A  sad  smile,  think  you?  Look  upon  life  and  see. 

"  And  what  do  I  care  for  a  painting,  a  mere  canvas  with 


148  THE   DESCENDANf 

daubs  of  color,  when  I  have  you — you,  the  pulse  of  my 
heart !"  She  was  unwise.  Probably.  What  has  love  to 
do  with  wisdom  ? 

She  was  ignorant  Certainly.  What  has  passion  to  do 
with  knowledge  ? 

All  during  the  winter  and  spring  they  had  learned  to 
know  each  other.  Perhaps  some  of  the  first  frantic  ecstasy 
suffered.  We  do  not  waste  time  in  wishing  for  that  which 
we  have.  Not  that  we  value  it  less;  but  when  one  may 
wish,  let  it  be  for  something  one  does  not  hold  in  the  hol 
low  of  one's  hand.  And  idealism,  that  gaudy  coloring 
matter  of  passion,  fades  when  it  is  brought  beneath  the 
trenchant  white  light  of  knowledge.  Ideals,  like  moun 
tains,  are  best  at  a  distance. 

But  the  winter  passed  quickly  enough.  Many  a  merry 
evening  they  had,  dining  first  at  one  place,  then  at  another; 
always  finding  something  to  laugh  over,  some  recollection 
of  their  early  lives  to  be  recalled.  A  jolly  little  Bohemian 
she  was,  and  much  of  the  Bohemian  world  had  she  known. 

Sometimes  they  went  to  the  opera.  There  was  Calve 
that  year,  and  Maurel,  and  the  De  Reszkes,  and  a  host  of 
others.  And,  best  of  all,  Melba  the  adorable,  with  a  voice 
like  the  rippling  of  ecstasy  over  sorrow  and  a  smile  like 
the  glancing  of  the  dawn. 

He  liked  to  watch  her  as  she  listened  to  music,  her  little 
head  held  back,  her  eyes  growing  deep  and  solemn  like  the 
heart  of  a  storm,  her  quivering  beautiful  lips  apart. 

He  told  her  of  his  hard-worked  years,  showed  her  the 
streets  through  which  he  had  walked  in  his  feverish  youth, 
and  told  her  of  the  nights  when  he  had  roamed  up  and 
down,  across  the  bridge  and  back  again,  weak  from  hun 
ger,  mad  with  pain. 

He  showed  her  the  square  where  he  had  fainted,  and  told 
her  of  the  woman  who  had  held  his  head  upon  her  arm. 

"  Wherever  she  is,"  said  Rachel,  "  may  God  bless  her !" 

And  perhaps  God  did. 

To  Michael  now  those  days  seemed  far — far  off.     He 


THE    DESCENDANT  149 

could  speak  lightly  of  starvation  and  despair,  as  we  speak 
lightly  of  a  past  pain,  remembering,  not  the  pain  itself,  but 
the  association  of  ideas  which  it  suggests.  All  the  reck 
less  ambition  of  his  boyhood,  all  the  weighty  heritage  of 
shame  and  ignorance,  no  longer,  represented  life  to  him. 
He  was  able  to  look  back  impersonally  upon  them,  and  to 
separate  in  distinct  consciousness  the  boy  of  eight  years 
back  and  the  man  of  to-day.  He  looked  upon  his  youth, 
not  as  a  romancer  "  reverencing  its  dreams,"  but  as  a  mor 
alist  condoning  its  passion. 

His  philosophy  had  undergone  modifications.  He  read 
to  Rachel,  but  he  did  not  read  his  old  masters.  Instinc 
tively  he  felt  that  she  had  naught  in  common  with  them. 
Schopenhauer  and  Von  Hartmann  were  put  back  upon  the 
shelf ;  the  dust  gathered  and  thickened  upon  Rousseau  and 
Proudhon  ;  Voltaire  went  the  way  of  all  philosophers.  And 
Rachel  was  supreme.  He  had  discovered  by  this  time 
that  she  was  not  an  angel,  but  he  had  found  to  his  satis 
faction  that  she  was  something  far  more  interesting — a 
witch. 

She  bewitched  him  in  the  audacity  of  her  brilliant  mirth, 
when  her  eyes  were  like  laughing  stars  and  the  dimples 
beside  them  played  at  hide-and-seek,  and  her  mouth  quiv 
ered  with  the  merriment  that  would  not  be  shut  in.  She 
bewitched  him  in  her  gravity,  when  her  beauty,  which  was 
all  radiance  and  expression,  had  died  away,  leaving  a  strained 
and  pallid  abstraction.  Perhaps  at  such  times  he  loved 
her  best,  for  her  fascination  was  distinctive  and  apart  from 
beauty  of  form  or  color.  Upon  her  plainest  days  it  was 
sometimes  most  vivid,  and  consisted  more  in  the  mobility 
of  her  personality  than  in  any  definite  quality. 

In  the  spring  came  Michael's  breaking  down  and  Rachel's 
nursing — lavish,  enthusiastic. 

He  remembered  lying  for  hours  upon  the  sofa  in  her 
studio,  watching  her  small  flitting  figure,  as  uncertain  as  a 
gleam  of  sunshine.  The  making  of  the  beef-tea  was  gone 
through  so  absorbingly  that  he  loved  to  watch  the  play  of 


150 


THE    DESCENDANT 


her  long,  white  fingers,  the  earnestness  with  which  she 
peered  into  the  jar  as  it  sizzled  and  boiled  in  the  kettle  of 
water.  He  watched  her  as  she  knelt  before  the  fire,  the 
long  fork  held  out  before  the  ruddy  coals,  the  light  falling 
over  her  bowed  head,  her  eyes  looking  up  at  him  from  the 
rug,  laughing,  wistful. 

And  then  she  would  spread  the  napkin  upon  the  waiter, 
strain  the  beef-tea,  and  bring  it  to  him,  sitting  beside  him 
until  he  drained  the  last  drop.  In  Michael's  last  severe  ill 
ness,  when  he  was  shrieking  in  the  madness  of  fever,  his 
voice  grew  suddenly  low  and  appealing,  and  he  cried  :  "  Is 
this  your  broth,  Rachel  ?  I  want  only  Rachel's  broth  !" 
And  when  one  of  the  hospital  nurses  said,  "This  is  Rachel's 
broth,"  he  took  it  from  her  and  drank  it  down  like  a  child. 
And  turning  upon  his  cot  he  stared  out  into  vacancy  with 
his  delirious  eyes,  seeing  her  standing  beside  him,  her  hand 
outstretched,  smiling — smiling — 

But  by-gones  are  by-gones.  Time  jogs  on  and  we  with 
it.  Whither  ?  Whither  ? 


CHAPTER  IV 

JOHN  DRISCOLL  stood  upon  the  steps  of  his  club.  In  one 
hand  he  held  a  cigar,  in  the  other  a  match,  with  the  blue 
flame  slowly  flickering  out.  He  had  forgotten  that  his  orig 
inal  intention  was  to  apply  the  match  to  the  cigar. 

A  military-looking  gentleman,  running  down  the  steps  be 
hind  him,  paused  to  slap  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Hello !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Is  it  a  matter  of  public  in 
terest  ?" 

"  I  was  merely  wondering,"  returned  Driscoll,  "  if  I  was 
a  particular  fool,  or  if  it  is  an  attribute  of  man  in  general  ?" 

"  For  purely  personal  reasons,  I  incline  to  believe  the 
former,"  remarked  the  military  gentleman  as  he  passed  on. 

Driscoll  drew  a  long  breath,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
with  his  habitual  loose-jointed  movement.  Then  he  uttered 
a  half-suppressed  exclamation  as  he  put  the  match  between 
his  lips  and  threw  the  cigar  into  the  gutter;  after  which  he 
uttered  a  more  forcible  exclamation  and  threw  the  match  in 
its  wake. 

"  Damn  it !"  he  said.  And  a  little  later,  "  Still  more  damn  !" 

Then  he  drew  out  his  cigar-case  and  fell  to  smoking  sav 
agely. 

"It's  no  business  of  mine,"  he  continued,  "but  I'm  such 
an  infernal  meddler.  Why  can't  I  let  other  people's  affairs 
alone  ?  Til  be  holding  myself  accountable  for  the  devil 
next,  and  apologizing  for  him  to  the  Almighty." 

He  descended  the  steps,  passing  languidly  along  the  side 
walk. 

"  Why  did  I  introduce  them  ?"  he  said,  half  aloud.  "  I 
might  have  known  something  would  come  of  it — something 
always  does  come  of  it.  Half  the  trouble  in  life  comes 


152  THE    DESCENDANT 

of  introducing  two  fools.  Look  at  that  missionary  I  intro 
duced  to  the  girl  I  loved.  Look  at  that  typewriter  I  intro 
duced  to  my  father;  she  married  the  property  and  the  old 
man  before  my  back  was  turned — " 

t  "  Stop  a  bit !"  called  some  one  from  behind.  He  turned, 
and  Kyle  joined  him. 

"  You  look  used  up,"  remarked  Kyle,  pleasantly. 

"  Decidedly  so,"  responded  Driscoll. 

"  Sorry,  but  I  want  that  paper  you  promised  me.  Begun 
on  it  yet  ?" 

"  No." 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  you'll  take  your  time;  you  usually 
do,  but  I  wish  you'd  go  ahead.  Going  in  for  luncheon? 
So  am  I." 

They  entered  the  restaurant  together  and  made  for  a  dis 
tant  table. 

Kyle  beckoned  to  a  waiter,  and  gave  the  order  with  the 
sharp,  peremptory  manner  which  so  ill  accorded  with  his 
principles.  Then  he  shook  back  the  hair  from  his  eyes  and 
began  upon  the  crackers  beside  his  plate. 

"  I  have  it !"  exclaimed  Driscoll,  in  an  audible  aside, 
awakening  from  an  abstracted  silence. 

Kyle  looked  slightly  amused.  "What's  the  row?"  he 
inquired,  persuasively. 

"Oh,  I  was  merely  alluding  to  an  ancestor  of  mine,"  re 
turned  the  other,  in  a  whimsical  drawl.  "  I  like  to  trace 
cause  and  effect,  you  know.  I  like  ascertaining  the  exact 
source  of  a  misfortune.  I  have  an  intemperate  conscience, 
my  dear  Kyle,  and  for  the  past  six  hours  I  have  sought  its 
fountain-head.  Now  I  have  it.  I  only  wish  I  had  him," 
he  added,  savagely. 

"A  weak  conscience  is  only  second  to  a  weak  digestion," 
remarked  Kyle,  sympathetically. 

"  Second !"  Driscoll  bent  his  heavy  brows  upon  him. 
"I  assure  you,  an  indiscretion  sits  heavier  upon  my  con 
science  than  a  —  a  plum -pudding  upon  my  digestion.  If 
that's  not  a  malady,  I  don't  know  one !" 


THE   DESCENDANT  153 

Kyle  laughed  with  the  quick  twitching  of  the  nostrils 
which  accompanied  it.  "  A  case  of  your  grandfather  hav 
ing  the  fun  and  you  the  gout,  I  suppose,"  he  suggested. 

Driscoll  crumbled  his  bread  between  his  fingers  in  a  mo 
ment's  abstraction ;  then  he  smiled.  "  I  had  a  grandfather 
who  was  a  Puritan,"  he  said,  "  which  means  that  he  was  a 
sinner  with  a  conscience.  The  only  recorded  fact  concern 
ing  him  states  that  he  stole  a  feather-bed;  it  also  states 
that  upon  his  death  he  made  restitution  of  the  feather-bed 
to  its  rightful  owners.  Don't  start,  my  dear  Kyle  ;  it  is  not 
his  method  of  acquiring  the  feather-bed  that  I  object  to— 
I  waive  that  in  respect  for  the  end  in  view.  Personally  I 
consider  feather-beds  highly  desirable  possessions,  and  had 
his  conscience  been  in  a  healthy  condition  he  would  have 
bequeathed  it  to  his  lineal  descendants.  But  the  feather 
bed  is  a  mere  instance.  It  is  the  conscience  I  object  to, 
and  the  conscience  I  have  inherited." 

"Conscience,"  said  Kyle,  dogmatically,  "represents  a 
fetich  to  which  good  people  sacrifice  their  own  happiness, 
bad  people  their  neighbors'." 

"  Quite  right ;  but  unfortunately  so  few  of  us  are  able  to 
grasp  that  convincing  truth.  If  there  is  a  law  in  this  uni 
verse  more  durable  than  the  Persistence  of  Force,  it  is  the 
law  of  the  Persistence  of  Error.  Witness  the  number  of 
us  that  are  unable  to  throw  off  the  effects  of  early  train 
ing.  Why,  if  there  is  one  document  that  is  firmly  embed 
ded  in  my  mind  it  is  the  Shorter  Catechism.  It  is  a  moral 
alphabet,  and  its  maxims  come  to  my  finger-tips  as  easily 
as  A  B  C.  I  acquired  it  with  twelve  painful  years ;  and 
philosophers  may  come  and  philosophers  may  go,  but  the 
Shorter  Catechism  abides  forever.  Somehow  I  can't  get 
over  the  conviction  that  when  I  follow  the  Catechism  I 
am  right,  when  I  go  contrary  to  it  I  am  wrong." 

He  smiled  upon  Kyle,  and  Kyle  cast  upon  him,  from  be 
neath  his  lowered  lids,  a  quick,  scrutinizing  glance,  as  if  in 
doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  his  words.  One  was  forced  to 
take  Driscoll's  earnestness,  if  he  was  ever  in  earnest,  upon 


154  THE    DESCENDANT 

trust.  "  It  is  a  lack  of  independence,  I  know,"  continued 
Driscoll.  "Nine -tenths  of  the  virtuous  people  are  good 
from  sheer  inability  to  be  bad.  A  fool  may  follow  in  the 
straight  and  narrow  path,  but  it  takes  a  clever  man  to 
leave  new  tracks  in  the  broad  one." 

Kyle  tapped  his  coffee-cup  with  the  forefinger  of  his 
right  hand. 

"Ah  !"  he  said,  softly,  with  a  sudden  relish  of  his  lunch 
eon.  Then  he  rose,  and  they  passed  out  into  the  street. 

At  the  corner  they  separated,  Kyle  going  to  his  work, 
Driscoll  to  his  idleness. 

He  had  gone  but  a  short  way  when  his  gait  lost  sudden 
ly  its  languid  listlessness,  and  a  quick  interest  awoke  in  his 
face.  Along  the  block  before  him  moved  swiftly  a  straight, 
slim  figure.  For  a  moment  Driscoll  started  in  pursuit. 
Then  his  pace  slackened  and  he  fell  back,  his  eyes  follow 
ing  the  figure  with  a  pained  wistfulness  until  it  disappeared 
around  a  distant  corner. 

Then  he  shook  himself  and  laughed. 

"A  woman,"  he  remarked,  irrelevantly,  "is  a  fool  until 
she  falls  in  love,  and  then  she's  a  damn  fool."  With  which 
philosophic  utterance  he  went  upon  his  way. 

After  the  opera  that  night  Driscoll  went  with  Mrs.  Van 
Dam  and  several  of  Mrs.  Van  Dam's  acquaintances  to  the 
Waldorf  for  supper.  Mrs.  Van  Dam  might  be  described  as 
the  logical  product  of  an  exact  equilibrium.  Her  earthly 
possessions  were  so  nicely  adjusted  upon  the  scales  of  fate 
that  the  weight  of  a  feather  upon  either  side  would  have 
disturbed  the  balance  and  she  would  have  been  found 
wanting.  Her  virtue,  as  an  instance,  was  less  the  result  of 
a  positive  tendency  in  that  direction  than  a  negative  ca 
pacity  for  the  opposite  course.  Being  beautiful,  she  might 
have  been  a  Lais;  being  plain,  she  became  a  Lucretia.  She 
possessed  worldly  wisdom  to  a  degree  that  enabled  her  to 
appreciate  the  fact  that  to  shine  in  infamy  requires  certain 
extraneous  qualities  which  may  be  dispensed  with  in  a  less 
ambitious  career.  To  be  successfully  vicious  necessitates 


THE   DESCENDANT  155 

charm  of  manner  ;  but  a  severe  exterior  is  not  unbefitting 
a  virtuous  soul.  Having  grasped  this  essential  verity,  Mrs. 
Van  Dam  relapsed  into  an  inflexible  respectability  ;  and, 
attaining  that  state,  meted  out  impartial  judgment  upon  the 
offenders  whose  less  nicely  adjusted  balances  have  decided 
them  upon  an  adverse  direction. 

Such  is  the  power  of  accident  in  our  choice  of  attitudes. 

Physically  she  was  a  small  woman,  with  a  figure  suggest 
ing  that  the  Lord,  in  his  search  for  material,  had  overlooked 
the  possibilities  of  the  backbone  in  favor  of  the  rib.  Her 
features  were  considered  saintly  by  those  who  had  only 
seen  saints  upon  canvas  and  associated  the  term  with  im 
mobility.  Mr.  Van  Dam  sat  across  from  her.  He  was  fat 
and  well  fed,  possessing,  indeed,  all  the  attributes  of  a  hap 
py  mortal.  The  fact  that  he  was  not  so  was  due  to  cir 
cumstances,  not  to  composition. 

A  gentleman  upon  Mrs.  Van  Dam's  right  was  looking 
down  upon  his  Newburg  with  sentimental  fondness.  "If  I 
eat  lobster,  and  if  I  don't  eat  lobster,  I  shall  regret  it,"  he 
remarked,  plaintively. 

"A  sin  of  commission  or  omission,"  suggested  Mr.  Van 
Dam,  with  a  sudden  interest  in  the  decision. 

"  If  it  lies  between  doing  a  thing  and  refraining  from 
doing  it,  I  always  do  it,"  announced  a  gentleman  with  a 
large  mouth  and  an  enormous  nose.  "To  act  means  to 
live." 

"Except  when  it  means  to  die,"  amended  the  sentimental 
gentleman,  resignedly,  as  he  took  up  his  fork. 

Suddenly  the  gentleman  with  the  enormous  nose  was 
heard  from.  "  There's  Akershem  with  a  lady,"  he  said. 
"I  didn't  know  he  affected  the  advancing  sex." 

"Ah,  he  has  retrograded,  you  see,"  commented  a  young 
lady  beside  him.  Then  she  looked  at  Mrs.  Van  Dam. 
"  Why,  it  is  your  young  cousin,"  she  said ;  "  where  has  she 
been  hiding  such  an  age  ?" 

Mrs.  Van  Dam  looked  at  her  with  eyes  that  saw  not.  So 
stony  was  her  stare  that  it  seemed  to  penetrate  the  walls 


156  THE    DESCENDANT 

and  to  traverse  Fifth  Avenue.  Her  voice  was  ominously 
distinct.  "  I  have  no  young  cousin,"  she  said.  Rachel 
Gavin,  sitting  within  reach  of  her,  heard  the  words,  and  a 
sudden  wave  of  color  mounted  to  her  white  forehead.  In 
stinctively  she  shrank  away,  drawing  nearer  to  Michael 
Akershem.  In  her  eyes  there  was  the  look  of  a  fawn  that 
a  huntsman  has  driven  to  bay. 

From  beneath  his  lowered  lids  Driscoll  looked  at  her, 
seeing  the  hunted  glance,  seeing  the  wave  of  scarlet  sweep 
across  her  brow,  seeing  also  that  the  look  Michael  bent 
upon  her  was  a  look  of  adoration  but  not  of  comprehension. 
His  sensibilities,  blunted  as  they  had  been,  failed  to  rec 
ognize  the  dart  that  wounded  her  sensitive  nature.  This 
Driscoll  understood,  and,  like  one  who  suddenly  awakes  to 
his  surroundings,  he  spoke,  fixing  his  keen  glance  upon  his 
hostess.  "  Why,  there  is  Miss  Gavin,"  he  said.  "  If  you 
will  pardon  me,  I'll  ask  her  about  her  picture."  He  crossed 
over  and  took  Rachel's  hand,  meeting  her  proud  glance  of 
gratitude  with  an  amused  indifference.  Akershem's  manner 
of  conscious  possession  irritated  him,  and  his  nonchalance 
was  heavier  than  usual,  as  he  stood  beside  them  waiting 
for  the  tremor  to  leave  Rachel's  lips. 

"  So  you  have  been  to  the  opera,"  he  said,  lightly. 
" That's  good;  there  is  only  one  thing  better  than  the 
sound  of  music,  and  that  is  no  sound  at  all." 

"  Oh,  dear,"  sighed  Rachel.  "  It  was  beautiful — so  beau 
tiful  !"  The  light  leaped  to  her  eyes — that  rich,  luminous 
light  that  shed  its  kindly  beams  in  an  indiscriminate  cor 
diality.  Michael  watched  her  silently,  his  face  warming 
with  delight  in  her,  until  his  irregular  features  grew  soft 
and  harmonious. 

I.  "  Well,  yes,"  conceded  Driscoll,  coolly,  "  Mrs.  Van  Dam 
really  said  some  witty  things." 

Rachel  frowned  spitefully.  "  She  might  have  said  them 
as  well  at  home,"  she  said. 

"  By  no  means :  the  singers  invoke  a  spirit  of  emulation. 
J  assure  you,  whenever  I  go  to  the  opera  I  take  my  note- 


THE   DESCENDANT  157 

book  along  prepared  to  jot  down  clever  speeches.  There 
must  be  something  inspiring  in  the  music  of  Faust,  for  the 
garden  scene  never  fails  to  sharpen  the  wits  of  my  friends." 
Then  he  grew  serious.  "  We  missed  you  at  the  oil  exhibit," 
he  said.  "  No  work  of  yours  was  hung." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  wistfully,  her  eyes  narrowing,  the 
smile  leaving  her  lips.  "  Oh,  I  was  never  much  of  a  painter, 
you  know,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  almost  appealing. 
"It  was  a  case  of  mistaken  vocation." 

His  eyes  were  merciless  in  their  keenness.  "  So  you  have 
joined  our  grand  army  of  the  unsuccessful,"  he  added. 

The  bitterness  of  tone  caused  her  to  cast  a  startled  look 
upon  him.  "You — you  regret  it  ?"  she  faltered.  "You  re 
gret  my  work  ?" 

"  I  regret  a  wasted  talent,"  he  answered,  harshly. 

She  did  not  reply,  and  he  left  them  and  went  back  to 
Mrs.  Van  Dam,  who  received  him  disapprovingly,  and  to 
Mr.  Van  Dam,  who  asked,  in  a  drowsy  tone,  "who  his 
charming  friend  was  ?"  And  Rachel  finished  her  supper, 
and  went  home  with  the  flush  still  lingering  upon  her  face. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  are  happy  ?"  she  asked — "  quite,  quite 
happy,  dearest  ?" 

And  he  answered  by  a  glance. 

Then  she  lifted  her  resolute  eyes  to  his,  and  said  in  her 
heart :  "  It  is  worth  it — worth  it  ten  thousand  times  !"  But 
she  did  not  forget  Driscoll  and  the  bitterness  of  his  lament 
over  her  buried  talent.  Despite  her  indomitable  pride  she 
acknowledged  a  vague  gratitude  ;  and  when,  some  evenings 
later,  Michael  brought  him  up  to  dinner,  she  received  him 
with  an  affectionate  cordiality.  "  I  told  him  we  were  to 
dine  in  your  studio,"  Michael  explained,  "  and  I  wanted 
him  to  get  a  glimpse  of  you  at  home." 

"It  was  just  right,"  assented  Rachel,  and  she  smiled 
brightly  upon  him.  At  the  moment  she  was  stirring  may 
onnaise  in  a  tiny  china  bowl,  and  she  gave  him  the  hand 
that  held  the  spoon.  The  black  sleeve  was  rolled  back 
from  her  elbow,  and  there  was  an  appealing  innocence 


158  THE    DESCENDANT 

about  the  curves  of  her  slim  white  arm.  To  Driscoll  she 
seemed  a  naughty  child  that  had  strayed  beyond  the  camp 
of  the  Philistines.  He  wondered  if  it  wasn't  all  play,  her 
art  and  her  ambition  and  her  love  and  the  whole  sunny 
stretch  of  her  short  life.  Was  the  tie  that  bound  her  to 
Michael  Akershem  more  durable  than  the  passing  fancy  of 
a  young  human  thing  for  companionship  ?  Was  it  not  the 
mistake  of  a  soul  in  the  old,  old  search  for  happiness  ?  She 
was  but  a  child  as  yet,  and  children  must  have  playthings ; 
but  when  the  child  puts  aside  childish  things,  would  she 
put  aside  her  love  along  with  them  ? 

But  she  was  healthy  and  warm  with  her  red  young  blood, 
and  the  call  of  a  warm  young  thing  for  happiness  is  not  to 
be  hushed  by  the  chill  of  the  philosopher's  stone.  It  is 
only  when  we  have  called  and  called  until  our  throats  are 
dry  and  happiness  has  not  come  that  we  take  up  philoso 
phy.  We  leave  the  sermons  of  life  to  the  dust  upon  the 
shelves  until  the  sweet  mad  poetry  has  drained  our  pas 
sions  dry ;  then  we  turn  back  for  the  sermons,  which  are  as 
dry  as  ourselves.  But  youth,  tragic  youth,  has  first  to  be 
cheated. 

Driscoll  glanced  about  him  with  a  careful  scrutiny.  He 
took  in  the  details  of  the  room,  the  charming  feminine 
touches  that  lent  it  its  originality.  It  was  a  room  which  re 
flected  Rachel  at  every  turn.  The  table  had  been  spread 
by  the  girl  herself,  and  when  she  had  finished  the  mayon 
naise,  turned  down  her  sleeves,  and  seated  herself  behind 
the  bowl  of  flame-colored  nasturtiums,  Driscoll  acknowl 
edged  to  himself  that  it  was  good.  Good  !  Far,  far  too 
good— too  good  for  Michael  Akershem  and  for  himself. 

Across  the  flame-colored  nasturtiums  her  deep  eyes  shone 
upon  him,  her  scarlet  lips  broke  into  sensitive  curves  as  she 
talked,  her  whole  radiant  personality  fell  over  him  as  the 
falling  of  a  spell.  Was  she  in  earnest,  or  was  it  all  play? 

"Who  is  going  to  smoke?"  asked  Michael,  when  the  din 
ner  things  had  been  removed,  and  they  still  lingered  about 
the  table. 


THE   DESCENDANT 


159 


Rachel  paused,  with  the  sugar-tongs  held  in  her  hands,  a 
lump  of  sugar  in  the  sugar-tongs. 

"  You  aren't,"  she  responded.  "You've  had  your  share  of 
cigars  to-day."  Then  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  Driscoll. 
"  You  may,  Mr.  Driscoll,"  she  said. 

"  Am  I  one  of  the  blessed  ?"  he  asked.  "  But  what  about 
Shem  ?" 

"  Shem  knows  he  can't  have  any,"  she  answered,  sweetly. 

"Just  one,"  pleaded  Michael. 

"Not  one,"  and  she  passed  him  his  coffee. 

He  demurred,  but  yielded.  "You  are  severe,"  he  pro 
tested. 

"  That  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it,"  returned  she. 
And  she  smiled  so  delightfully  that  Michael  swore  he  didn't 
want  a  single  one,  and  Driscoll  threw  his  into  the  grate. 
Then  they  drew  their  chairs  about  the  fire  and  talked  until 
the  hours  went  on,  and  Driscoll  left,  taking  Michael  along 
with  him. 

In  the  street  he  turned  and  looked  at  Akershem  with  a 
sudden  inscrutable  earnestness. 

"Upon  my  soul,  Shem,"  he  said,  "I  never  envied  a  liv 
ing  man  until  to-night."  And  then  he  added,  under  his 
breath,  "  No,  I  don't  envy  you,  because  you  will  never  un 
derstand." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  next  year  left  an  indelible  impression  upon  Michael 
Akershem.  It  showed  the  immense  factor  which  happiness 
or  unhappiness  may  be  in  the  making  of  man.  It  was  as  if 
the  check  arresting  his  development  had  been  suddenly 
withdrawn,  and  his  nature  as  suddenly  veered  into  a  dis 
covered  channel.  Not  that  Michael  was  satisfied — far  from 
it ;  but  his  dissatisfaction  had  taken  a  new  and  startling 
direction.  The  bitter  lines  about  his  mouth  faded  into 
a  general  expression  of  uncertainty ;  his  speech  was  less 
cynical,  more  honest.  He  was  fast  acquiring  the  air  of 
a  man  who  sees  in  the  world  the  oyster  ready  for  his 
opening. 

Perhaps,  of  all  men,  John  Driscoll  was  the  first  to  notice 
the  change.  The  desperate,  revolutionary  spirit  from  which 
he  had  feared  so  much  he  now  watched  with  growing  com 
placency,  seeing  in  it  a  flame  which,  sooner  or  later,  must 
burn  itself  out.  One  may  play  with  opinions  as  long  as 
there  is  no  danger  of  one's  cutting  one's  self. 

Michael  was  beginning  to  realize  that  life  might  turn  out 
to  be  a  pretty  good  thing  —  too  good  to  be  squandered  in 
altruism,  so  called.  And  as  long  as  life  seems  good  to  us 
we  are  content  to  leave  in  the  hands  of  Providence  the 
slaying  of  public  dragons.  It  is  not  of  happy  men  that 
martyrs  are  made,  and  Akershem  was  beginning  to  play  the 
reformer  after  Driscoll's  heart,  the  wise  one  who  leaves  his 
schemes  as  well  as  his  stones  to  be  tested  by  others.  But 
despite  the  awakened  regard  for  personal  attainment,  there 
was  a  feature  of  Michael's  evolution  from  revolutionist  to 
reformer  which  Driscoll  puzzled  over.  It  was  the  height 
ened  variability  of  his  moods,  as  if,  by  cheating  himself  into 


THE   DESCENDANT  t6l 

a  conviction,  he  were  trying  to  escape  the  resultant  twinges 
of  conscience. 

Egoism  had  been  the  cardinal  element  of  Michael's  nat 
ure — this  Driscoll  knew — an  egoism  which  was  all  but  un 
conscious  of  itself,  and  which  was  concentrated  into  an  ab 
normal  desire  for  self-satisfaction.  That  self-satisfaction 
to  be  complete  must  contain  self-esteem,  Driscoll  also  knew, 
and  the  varying  gloom  and  shade  of  Akershem's  demeanor 
made  him  wonder  if  the  reformer  held  the  mere  agitator  as 
worthy  of  respect  as  he  had  held  the  revolutionist. 

And  that  Michael  now  wrote  beyond  his  convictions  was 
evident.  But  little  force  had  gone  from  The  Iconoclast.  The 
leaders  were  as  brilliantly  invective  as  of  old,  but  in  the 
man  himself  fanaticism  seemed  exhausting  itself  in  waver 
ing  outbursts.  It  was  the  stock  in  trade  doled  out  from 
the  editor's  chair,  and  once  out  of  office  he  seemed  to  have 
left  the  mantle  of  his  Iconoclasm  behind  him.  Upon  Kyle, 
his  idolater  and  disciple,  perhaps  his  mantle  was  destined 
to  fall.  But  Kyle  hardly  seemed  to  favor  the  possible  trans 
ference.  He  had  a  slavish,  almost  superstitious  reverence 
for  Akershem,  the  man  whose  mental  force  had  dominated 
his  own  weaker  intellect  until  it  seemed  that  he  had  re 
ceived  the  other's  passion  untempered  by  the  other's  judg 
ment. 

Of  the  two  men,  Kyle  was,  unquestionably,  the  more  un 
selfish,  the  more  fanatical,  the  readier  to  offer  soul  and  brain 
to  the  party  juggernaut.  Akershem  was  the  saner. 

And  now  Michael  was  slackening  all  but  imperceptibly 
in  his  zeal.  His  mind  was  divided,  and  a  mind  divided 
against  itself  is  without  foundations.  His  abstraction  was 
the  result  of  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  cheat  himself  into 
overlooking  his  own  insufficiency,  and  with  a  mind  whose 
reason  and  desire  were  concomitant  this  was  no  difficult 
matter.  "  I  will  be  what  I  will  be  "  might  have  been  para 
phrased  for  him  into  "  I  am  what  I  will  to  be."  It  was 
not  that  he  refused  to  confront  his  soul,  but  that  in  con 
fronting  it  he  cast  over  it  the  glamour  of  personality,  looking 


162  THE    DESCENDANT 

down  upon  himself  through  himself.  Life  had  taught  him 
that  reason  may  be  bound  and  fettered  by  desire,  and  yet 
hold  itself  supreme  in  right  of  a  beggary  of  names. 

"There's  a  change  in  you,"  said  Semple  to  Michael  one 
day,  "and  I  like  it;  you're  better  company."  Michael 
laughed.  His  laugh  had  always  seemed  singularly  lacking 
in  a  humorous  quality,  and  there  was  no  change  in  that. 

"I  have  taken  your  advice,"  he  answered,  "and  I  feel 
that  we  must  move  slowly.  Desperate  attempts  end  in  des 
perate  failures." 

"  Quite  right !  quite  right !  There  is  nothing  like  mod 
eration." 

"  Nothing — when  one  upsets  the  world  for  a  pastime." 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  Semple's  short-sighted  eyes. 
"You  needn't  sneer,"  he  said;  "when  a  man  gets  to  mid 
dle  age  he  wants  a  warrant  against  boredom.  Every  man 
tries  to  find  one — science,  philosophy,  dissipation,  what  you 
will.  Now,  to  a  man  who  wants  action  and  has  no  especial 
taste  for  impropriety,  reform  is  the  thing." 

"Glad  you're  suited.  It  seems  to  me  a  useless  sort  of 
thing,  though  a  frenzy  may  be  vastly  diverting,  one  can't 
work  one's  self  into  it  over  nothing.  A  man  wants  to  see 
the  fruits  of  his  endeavor." 

"That's  a  weakness  of  youth,  my  dear  Akershem.  When 
a  man  has  passed  into  his  fifties  he'd  much  rather  not  see 
the  fruits  of  his  endeavor.  He  wants  to  be  always  looking 
ahead  to  them.  No  man  wants  to  reach  the  top  of  the  hill ; 
when  he  does  he  may  as  well  sit  down  and  wait  to  die. 
Pessimism  is  the  affectation  of  youth,  the  reality  of  age." 

"And  your  immense  influence  has  for  its  support — " 

"  Diversion  !  A  sure  one,  I  warrant  you.  This  is  between 
ourselves,  of  course.  I  don't  placard  my  motives,  but — " 
Then  he  changed  his  tone.  "  You'll  dine  with  us  on  Thurs 
day,  won't  you?  Quite  informally.  My  wife  wishes  to 
know  you,  and  if  you  don't  wish  to  know  her  now  you  will 
after  Thursday.  You'll  come?  All  right."  And  they 
parted. 


THE    DESCENDANT  l6$ 

Michael  went  home,  changed  his  clothes,  and  went  in  to 
see  Rachel. 

"  Semple  got  hold  of  me,"  he  said,  "  and  made  me  prom 
ise  to  dine  there." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Rachel,  "but  I  don't  like  Semple." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  it's  because  he's  —  he's  insin 
cere." 

"Insincere!     How?" 

"  Oh,  how  can  I  tell  ?  But  I  know  he  is ;  I  feel  it.  He 
rubs  his  hands  so,  and  he's— he's  fishy." 

Which  was  somewhat  unjust ;  but  justice  was  hardly  one 
of  Rachel's  strong  points. 

Concerning  Semple,  Michael  found  that  his  own  toler 
ance  had  strengthened.  He  even  began  to  entertain  a  rev 
erence  for  so  well  balanced  a  judgment,  and  his  contempt 
for  what  he  had  called  "  Semple's  artifice  "  was  rapidly  wan 
ing  in  admiration  for  his  sagacity.  On  the  whole,  he  was 
glad  he  had  accepted  Semple's  invitation,  and  when  Thurs 
day  came  it  was  with  no  small  interest  that  he  went  to  keep 
his  engagement. 

A  cheery  blaze  of  light  greeted  him  in  the  hall — a  ruddy 
light  of  open  fires  and  shaded  lamps.  At  his  entrance  there 
was  a  scampering  of  children's  feet  and  a  voice  heard, 
saying : 

"No,  no,  Johnny,  positively  you  can't  look  at  him;  he 
isn't  a  show.  Go  to  bed." 

Then  in  a  moment  Mrs.  Semple  descended  with  out 
stretched  hand  and  cordial  voice,  several  children  clinging 
to  her  skirts,  and  a  general  air  of  motherliness  about  her. 
Michael  felt  a  delightful  ease  at  the  first  sound  of  her  voice  ; 
she  seemed  the  embodiment  of  home  and  comfort.  "  I 
couldn't  get  the  children  to  bed,"  she  said,  cheerily,  "until 
they  had  had  a  peep  at  you — just  one  peep,  and  then  they 
go  to  nurse."  There  was  something  beautiful  in  the  way 
her  large  white  hands  passed  over  the  tiny  heads  and  the 
patience  with  which  she  submitted  to  the  ruthless  clutching 


164  THE   DESCENDANT 

at  her  light  skirts.  "Say  good-night,"  she  said,  "and  run 
away."  And  after  Michael  had  shaken  hands  with  a  boy 
or  so,  and  kissed  several  of  whose  sex  he  was  uncertain, 
they  were  borne  off  by  a  nurse  in  a  voluminous  apron. 

Mrs.  Semple  was  a  large  woman  with  a  somewhat  shape 
less  figure  and  a  pleasant  face.  Her  face  was  so  pleasant 
that  one  forgot  to  notice  that  her  features  were  irregular 
and  her  chin  too  full.  One  might  have  called  her  a  noble- 
looking  woman  without  stopping  to  explain  what  the  term 
signified.  The  geniality  of  her  expression,  the  tactful 
charm  of  her  manner,  caused  her  size  and  the  awkwardness 
of  her  movements  to  dwindle  into  veriest  insignificance. 

She  talked  to  him  of  his  work,  of  the  success  of  his  jour 
nalism,  of  a  lecture  she  had  heard  him  deliver,  and  of  her 
husband's  enthusiastic  interest  in  his  future,  until,  by-and- 
by,  Semple  himself  came  in  and  Michael  saw  the  agitator 
at  home.  The  deference  and  honor  with  which  he  treated 
his  wife  were  at  once  evident.  There  was  no  turn  in  the 
conversation  that  he  did  not  appeal  to  her  judgment ;  when 
she  spoke  he  listened  gravely,  if  he  differed  he  entered  into 
a  full  argument.  Never  by  the  slightest  sign  did  he  ignore 
the  value  of  her  opinion  or  bring  the  question  of  her  sex 
before  them.  She  spoke  as  coolly  and  independently  as  if 
she  were  a  man  and  he  her  associate  in  business  affairs.  It 
was  a  strange  and  surprising  experience  to  Michael,  who 
knew  the  vacillating  restlessness  of  Semple's  nature,  and 
who  had  seen  wives  of  a  year  or  two  ignored  or  treated  as 
dolls  in  dolls'  houses.  Here  was  a  woman,  neither  young 
nor  beautiful,  who  had  been  married  twenty  years,  who  was 
the  mother  of  a  large  family,  and  who  held  the  undeviating 
esteem  of  a  man  as  changeable  as  Hedley  Semple.  How 
was  it? 

"  You  should  hear  my  wife  on  the  platform,"  said  Semple, 
suddenly.  "You're  a  new  woman,  aren't  you,  Carolina?" 

"  A  pretty  old  one,"  she  answered,  cheerily.  "  My  oldest 
boy  will  be  seventeen  in  March." 

"  She's  abreast  with  me,"  he  explained,  "  in  my  work,  and 


THE   DESCENDANT  165 

sometimes  she  gets  ahead.  She  works  for  the  emancipa 
tion  of  women,  and  it  is  as  much  as  your  sanity  is  worth  to 
get  into  a  controversy  with  her  on  the  subject.  She  can 
show  you  more  logic  in  an  hour  than  you  ever  imagined  the 
woman's  suffragists  possessed.  I — " 

But  the  other  guests  arrived,  and  Michael  found  that  the 
dinner  was  hardly  so  informal  as  he  had  been  led  to  ex 
pect.  There  were  several  ladies  ;  all  wore  rustling  silks, 
and  one  of  them  was  very  beautiful.  She  was  introduced 
as  Miss  Rankin,  and  he  heard  Mrs.  Semple  call  her  "  Ger 
trude."  She  was  tall  and  of  superb  physique,  with  a  brill 
iant  color,  and  coal-black  hair  worn  smoothly  braided  upon 
the  crown  of  her  head.  He  learned  that  she  had  just  left 
Vassar,  that  she  was  a  Theosophist,  and  was  upon  her  way 
to  Madame  Somebody  of  somewhere,  who  was  to  instruct 
her  in  the  art  of  spiritualism.  She  carried  herself  languid 
ly  and  spoke  as  from  an  elevation,  seeming  to  have  an  eye 
for  things  spiritual  and  looking  like  a  magnificent  specimen 
of  things  temporal. 

Then  there  was  Miss  Patskey,  who  was  of  uncertain 
years,  tall  and  thin,  with  a  gray  front  that  had  not  always 
been  in  her  possession.  She  was  a  woman  of  extraordinary 
attainments,  having  an  aptitude  for  scientific  pursuits,  and 
was  just  completing  a  work  upon  "The  Habits  of  Centi 
pedes,"  which  she  alluded  to  frequently,  remarking  that  our 
ignorance  of  the  habits  of  those  domestic  insects  was  de 
pressing.  At  every  allusion  Miss  Rankin  was  seen  to  put 
her  spoon  aside,  shift  her  spiritual  vision,  and  shudder. 

Next  came  Miss  Allard,  who  taught  mathematics  in  a 
public  school.  She  was  fresh  and  plain  looking  when  over 
shadowed  by  Miss  Rankin's  superb  proportions,  but  Michael 
liked  the  strength  of  her  honest  face  crowned  by  the  halo 
of  rich  red  hair.  Her  skin  was  of  the  transparent  order 
that  is  rarely  seen  unaccompanied  by  red  hair,  but  her  eyes, 
instead  of  being  blue,  were  hazel.  Once  he  met  her  full, 
level  glance,  and  found  her  eyes  limpid  with  an  emotion 
less  tranquillity. 


j66  THE    DESCENDANT 

Miss  Rankin  was  taken  in  to  dinner  by  an  English  Mem 
ber  of  Parliament,  who  displayed  a  lively  interest  in  the 
habits  of  the  centipedes  as  well  as  the  habits  of  Americans, 
but  who  dressed  with  a  meritorious  disregard  of  the  latter. 
He  was  making  a  tour  of  the  United  States  in  the  interest 
of  a  theory  he  hoped  to  formulate  concerning  republican 
governments — whether  for  or  against,  Michael  did  not  dis 
cover.  The  M.P.  had  been  in  America  exactly  three  weeks, 
during  which  space  he  had  received  enough  impressions  to 
supply  the  demands  of  the  most  prominent  periodicals,  to 
which  he  was  contributing  lengthy  articles  upon  "  America 
and  Americans,"  "  Characteristics  of  American  Women," 
and  "American  Types."  About  the  last  paper  he  seemed 
somewhat  confused,  and  Michael  heard  him  apply  to  Sem- 
ple  for  data. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  interrupted  Kyle,  who  was  of  the  party, 
leaning  across  the  table,  and  speaking  in  a  high  -  pitched, 
dictatorial  voice,  "  there's  no  such  thing  as  an  American 
type  or  a  typical  American.  It's  all  nonsense.  But,  of 
course,  if  you  ram  it  down  our  throats  we  will  believe  you. 
It's  a  weakness  of  Americans  to  read  the  folderol  foreign 
ers  are  always  writing  about  them." 

The  M.P.  put  up  his  eye-glass  and  eyed  the  speaker 
curiously.  But  for  his  inherent  good -breeding  he  should 
have  liked  to  have  taken  this  specimen  down  in  a  series  of 
notes. 

"  Give  us  time,"  began  a  mild- voiced  young  man  from  the 
other  end  of  the  table.  His  name  was  Self,  and  he  was  a 
Methodist  clergyman,  having  strayed  into  satanic  meshes 
through  his  admiration  for  Miss  Allard.  "  We  are  making 
a  nation,"  he  declared—"  a  great  nation." 

Mr.  Self  was  a  gentleman  of  a  great  many  ideals  and  a 
very  few  ideas.  His  ideals  were  his  own,  stamped  with  the 
pattern  of  their  creator ;  his  ideas  were  borrowed— notably 
from  Thomas  a  Kempis  and  Mr.  Jeremy  Taylor.  His 
ideals  he  used  as  whips,  whereby  he  lashed  his  congrega 
tion  into  the  narrow  path  j  his  ideas  he  reserved  as  a  con- 


THE   DESCENDANT  ^7 

science -balm,  when  he  was  inclined  on  his  own  part  to 
traverse  the  broad  one. 

"  We  are  making  a  great  nation,"  he  repeated,  with  amia 
ble  emphasis. 

Miss  Patskey  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him,  whereupon  he 
was  suppressed. 

"  Take  a  composite  photograph  of  the  nations  of  the 
earth,"  asserted  she,  "  and  you  have  a  typical  American." 

But  the  Englishman  was  speaking  to  Michael.  "I  hear 
that  you  are  from  Virginia,  Mr.  Akershem,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  feel  a  peculiar  interest  in  Virginia.  I  intend  spending 
some  weeks  there  upon  my  return  from  the  West,  in  order 
to  have  an  opportunity  of  studying  the  negro  character. 
Can  you  suggest  the  part  of  the  country  most  suitable  to 
my  intention  ?" 

Michael  felt  that  he  was  verging  upon  unsafe  ground, 
but  he  entered  into  a  discussion  respecting  the  relative  ad 
vantages  of  the  various  sections.  He  was  somewhat  re 
lieved  when  Mrs.  Semple  called  the  Englishman's  attention 
to  the  general  conversation. 

"We  are  discussing,"  she  said,  in  her  pleasant  voice, 
"the  greatest  need  of  the  American  people.  Mr.  Kyle 
thinks  independence  spiced  with  action;  Miss  Patskey  the 
emancipation  of  women  ;  and  Mr.  Self  is  divided  between 
prohibition  and  religion." 

"  Spiritualism,"  announced  Miss  Rankin,  bringing  her 
glorious  eyes  to  bear  upon  the  M.P.,  and  speaking  as  if  she 
were  issuing  oracles  from  Mount  Olympus — "  spiritualism  is 
the  need  of  our  people.  We  are  singularly  lacking  in 
ethereal  qualities.  The  presence  of  a  Madame  Blavatsky 
among  us  would  work  miracles.  We  need  to  look  upward 
to  higher  things ;  we  are  exhausting  ourselves  in  the  de 
basing  pursuit  of  wealth." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  Miss  Rankin,"  cried  Mr.  Self,  in  mild 
excitement.  Miss  Rankin  bowed  her  priestess-like  head  in 
acknowledgment  of  his  intelligence. 

"  We  need   patriotism,"  said  Michael ;  "  our  patriotism 


168  THE   DESCENDANT 

was  exhausted  in  the  Revolution.  Our  constitution  to-day 
is  no  better  than  a  stagnant  organism,  supporting  a  para 
sitic  growth  of  politicians." 

"  But  this — this  praiseworthy,  shall  I  call  it  ? — desire  to 
know  what  is  thought  of  your  institutions  by  travellers,  is 
this  not  patriotism  ?"  The  Englishman  leaned  forward,  in 
tent  upon  sifting  the  matter  to  an  explanation. 

"  Oh,  I  think  our  patriotism  is  all  right,"  said  Semple,  re 
assuringly.  "  Let  a  foreign  power  assail  our  dignity,  and 
see  what  will  come  of  it.  But  as  long  as  we  can't  have 
war,  why  not  let  us  have  wealth  ?" 

"  Oh,  it  is  the  love  of  wealth  that  is  wrecking  our  national 
character,"  argued  Mr.  Self.  "  I  agree  with  Miss  Rankin  : 
we  have  too  much  sordid  realism.  We  need  idealism.  We 
nee'd  to  turn  to  the  frugal  existence  of  our  Puritan  ances 
tors,  putting  aside  all  the  vicious  results  of  these  decadent 
days.  We  need  to  do  away  with  the  liquor  traffic  and 
woman's  suffrage." 

Miss  Rankin  started,  a  slow  flush  mantling  her  beautiful 
face.  "  I  did  not  mean  that,"  she  retorted,  haughtily. 

"  In  woman's  suffrage,"  said  Miss  Patskey,  repeating  a 
lesson  by  rote,  "  behold  the  salvation  of  our  people." 

"  And  in  the  liquor  traffic  the  consolation  of  man,"  added 
Semple.  "  So  you're  overruled,  Mr.  Self." 

"  But,  after  all,"  concluded  Mrs.  Semple,  "  it  remains  for 
me  to  solve  the  riddle,  and  to  suggest  that  our  greatest  need 
is  the  need  of  manners." 

The  M.P.  was  struck  with  the  discrimination  shown  in 
the  remark.  "  Now,  I'd  really  thought  of  that  myself,  you 
know."  He  emphasized  and  proceeded  to  make  a  mental 
memorandum  of  the  coincidence. 

Michael,  looking  up,  met  Miss  Allard's  eyes  across  the 
table,  and  again  he  noticed  how  clear  they  were.  Then  he 
looked  at  Miss  Rankin  and  back  again,  and  thought  how 
plain  and  commonplace  Miss  Allard  was. 

When  the  gentlemen  came  into  the  drawing-room  the 
Englishman  pleaded  an  engagement  and  left,  impressed 


THE   DESCENDANT     t  169 

with  the  fact  that  well -served  dinners  are  a  pleasant 
feature  of  American  customs.  Miss  Rankin  gathered  her 
diaphanous  drapery  around  her,  bowed  her  stately  head,  and 
was  driven  away,  chaperoned  by  Miss  Patskey,  who  had 
tied  her  head  up  in  a  gray  woollen  muffler. 

Then  several  small  figures  in  white  nightgowns  came 
bounding  into  the  drawing-room. 

"I  heard  Anna,"  piped  a  chorus  of  trebles.  "And  I 
smelled  cake,  an'  I  want  both." 

And  Anna,  who  was  Miss  Allard,  marshalled  them  off  to 
bed. 

"The  children  adore  Anna,"  said  Mrs.  Semple,  "and  so 
do  I.  She  is  so  wholesome." 

Michael,  walking  home  through  the  night,  found  himself 
haunted  by  Mrs.  Semple's  serene  graciousness.  A  charm 
ing  woman  she  was,  he  told  himself,  and  he  seemed  to  see 
her  large,  bounteous  figure,  enhanced  by  the  cheerful  setting- 
off  of  her  fireside — a  rare  womanly  presence,  in  whom  the 
restless  heart  of  her  husband  had  trusted  for  twenty  years. 
What  was  it  that  to  a  man  so  impatient  of  restraint  as 
Hedley  Semple  had  made  his  marriage  bonds  not  irksome, 
but  a  veritable  assistance  ?  Michael  questioned,  and,  so  ques 
tioning,  gave  it  up. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ONE  evening  during  the  following  week,  Michael,  pass 
ing  Semple's  after  dusk,  saw  Miss  Allard  descend  the  steps 
and  pass  along  the  sidewalk  before  him. 

With  a  mechanical  inertness  his  eyes  followed  the  swift 
onward  tendency  of  her  movements,  lingering  upon  every 
flexible  line  of  her  figure  as  it  flitted  through  the  pellucid 
light  effect.  The  electric  light  seemed  invested  with  a 
curious  fluidity.  It  was  as  if  it  shimmered  in  visible  waves 
upon  the  sustaining  atmosphere. 

There  was  a  buoyant  energy  about  the  girl's  figure,  a 
lightness  as  if  she  had  walked  upon  springy  turf  with  a 
pristine  disregard  of  the  weight  of  gravity. 

Michael  contracted  his  gaze  to  more  intent  observation. 
He  understood  what  Mrs.  Semple  had  meant  when  she 
said  "Anna  is  so  wholesome."  There  was  not  a  possibility 
of  the  morbid  depression  of  the  times  in  any  line  of  the 
girl's  form.  She  was  all  health  and  action,  a  reincarnation 
of  a  woodland  Diana,  passing  at  nightfall  through  the  New 
York  streets.  It  was  not  that  she  was  beautiful,  for  she 
was  not;  it  was  only  that  she  was  healthy,  untainted  by  the 
degeneration  of  the  day,  as  untainted  as  if  she  had  lived 
upon  sylvan  meads  and  fed  upon  the  milk  and  butter  of  a 
mountain  dairy.  An  appropriate  milkmaid  she  might  have 
made  for  all  the  clear-cut  purity  of  her  profile,  carrying  her 
bucket  with  the  firm,  swinging  movement  of  her  unfettered 
arms,  carolling  in  the  rarefied  atmosphere  of  the  pastures. 
Suddenly  she  turned  the  corner,  and  Michael  overtook  her 
with  several  long  strides.  "  You  are  late,"  he  said.  "  May 
I  not  see  you  safely  home  ?" 

Miss  Allard  turned  upon  him  with  her  fresh,  wholesome 


THE    DESCENDANT 

smile.     He  could  but  notice  the  serenity  of  her  quiet  face, 
brightened  by  the  glory  of  her  hair. 

"I  hardly  think  my  safety  depends  upon  it,"  she  ob 
served,  with  her  cheery  laugh  that  seemed  sylvan  in  its 
heartiness;  "but  as  you  choose."  She  had  drawn  herself 
to  her  full  height  with  an  unconscious  dignity  of  carriage. 
He  thought,  with  a  touch  of  offended  vanity,  that  she 
seemed  not  wholly  pleased  with  the  meeting— but  perhaps 
it  was  his  fancy,  after  all. 

"  I  am  late,"  she  admitted,  after  considering  the  sugges 
tion.  "Nannie  will  worry." 

"Nannie?" 

"  My  niece,"  she  explained.  "I  have  had  her  since  she 
was  a  tiny  child.  We  lived  in  the  country  until  her  parents 
died." 

"Oh  !"  The  chastened  rusticity  of  her  personality  was 
explained.  Perhaps  she  had  been  fed  upon  milk  and  eggs, 
and  that  trick  of  walking— evidently  the  meadows  had 
been  springy. 

"You  lived  out-of-doors,"  he  said,  unconsciously  speak 
ing  his  impression  aloud. 

"Out-of-doors?"     Her  eyes  questioned  his  sanity. 

"  I — I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  was  seeking  to  explain 
your  difference  from  the  women  of  to-day.  Mrs.  Semple 
says  that  you  are  wholesome — the  result  of  country  air,  I 
suppose. 

"  Perhaps."  There  was  a  rising  breeze  in  her  laugh,  sug 
gesting  buttercups  and  pastures  green.  "  All  wild  things 
are  wholesome,  are  they  not  ?  I  grew  wild." 

He  bent  his  ruthless  gaze  upon  her.  "  You  are  like  a 
tonic,"  he  said,  simply.  Then  he  added,  "And  what  a  pity 
it  is!  you  will  not  escape  the  contagion  —  you  will  catch 
one  of  the  '  isms '  floating  around  and  go  mad,  like  the  rest 
of  us." 

"Are  you  mad?" 

"  It  is  deadly.  The  degeneration  has  attacked  us.  It 
is  the/;/  de  siecle  disease," 


172  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  It  is  transient.  From  the  fever  we  shall  but  gain  stairi' 
ina  for  fresh  exertions." 

"Ah,  it  hasn't  attacked  you  yet." 

"I  am  not  sufficiently  civilized.  The  disease  is  not 
strong  enough  to  contend  with  rusticity."  With  all  the 
soft  outlines  of  her  lips  there  was  no  lack  of  decision,  for 
all  at  once  the  lines  of  determination  were  written  upon 
her  face.  She  looked  up  at  him  thoughtfully.  "I  did  not 
know,"  she  said,  "  until  a  moment  ago  that  you  were  the 
Mr.  Akershem — of  The  Iconoclast" 

"  Yes."  Michael's  vanity  responded  to  the  appeal,  but 
he  started  slightly  at  her  next  remark. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said. 

"  Sorry  !     Why  ?" 

The  words  seemed  to  have  slipped  from  her  almost  uncon 
sciously;  for  as  he  repeated  them  the  color  in  her  cheeks 
deepened.  But,  having  committed  herself,  she  did  not  flinch. 

"  Sorry  that  you  have  thrown  yourself  away." 

Rudeness  was  hardly  compatible  with  the  simple  earnest 
ness  of  her  voice,  rising  perceptibly  in  its  flute-like  notes ; 
if  not  rudeness,  then  ignorance.  But  he  turned  to  look  at 
her,  and  the  supposition  fled.  He  fixed  his  magnetic  re 
gard  upon  her.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  inflexible  convictions  of  an  incorrupti 
ble  character.  An  almost  primitive  adherence  to  principle 
was  the  dominant  element  of  Miss  Allard's  nature. 

"Thrown  myself  away?"  repeated  Michael.  "  Why,  I 
have  accomplished  more  than  any  man  of  my  age  that  I 
know." 

He  said  it  honestly,  with  a  desire  to  right  himself  in  her 
eyes. 

"  You  see  one  side,"  proceeded  Miss  Allard,  in  her  even 
tones.  "  Perhaps  I  cannot  see  that  side,  but  I  See  the 
other  and — is  it  worth  it  ?"  Then  she  broke  off.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,"  she  said,  with  the  same  cordial  smile.  "  I 
should  not  have  spoken.  Won't  you  come  in  ?  Good- 
evening  !" 


THE   DESCENDANT  1^3 

But  as  he  turned  to  go  he  looked  back  at  her  as  she 
stood  in  the  doorway.  "  Some  day,"  he  said,  "  will  you 
explain  ?" 

And  she  answered  :  "  Some  day — perhaps." 

A  child  had  come  to  the  door — a  slight,  crippled  girl, 
who  leaned  upon  a  crutch.  Anna  Allard  stooped  and  lifted 
her  in  her  arms,  and  he  saw  her  head  resting  upon  the 
child's  upturned  face.  Then  the  door  closed  upon  them, 
and  he  went  out  into  the  night. 

Miss  Allard's  personality  was  an  enigma  to  him.  There 
was  a  depth  that  he  could  not  fathom,  for  all  its  limpid 
serenity  —  some  indefinable  attribute  which  he  failed  to 
grasp.  It  was  not  the  fact  of  her  evident  disapprobation- 
thousands  showed  that :  he  had  been  harried  by  the  news 
papers  and  assailed  from  all  the  pulpits  in  the  land.  Nor 
was  it  that  she  was  reasonable  in  her  disapproval ;  liberal 
ity,  though  uncommon,  was  not  impossible,  and  he  had  en 
countered  it  occasionally. 

But  his  impressions  were  fleeting;  he  concluded  that 
Miss  Allard  was  a  good  young  woman  with  a  fine  carriage 
and  a  healthy  interest  in  life,  and  so  forgot  her  and  her 
grave  arraignment. 

Fate  deals  largely  in  small  circumstances.  Like  life,  if 
she  ignored  the  infinitesimal  she  would  go  a-begging  for 
the  infinite.  Her  puppets  are  impelled  onward  in  a  given 
line ;  following  the  rhythm  of  motion,  they  circle  through 
time,  and  but  for  the  attraction  of  existing  forces  might  cir 
cle  indefinitely.  But  the  curl  of  an  eyelash,  the  turn  of  an 
ankle,  a  moment's  vanity,  and  lo !  the  circle  is  broken  and 
a  collision  has  come.  Then  the  combination  of  gases  goes 
to  pieces,  and  from  the  chaos^  another  combination  rises, 
phcenix-like,  and  passes  into  space.  And  the  littleness  and 
the  greatness  are  in  no  wise  diminished. 

Michael  dropped  in  at  Semple's  one  afternoon,  and  as 
he  was  leaving  Mrs.  Semple  handed  him  a  note. 


174  THE   DESCENDANT 

"Will  you  leave  this  at  Anna's?"  she  said.  "The  ser 
vants  that  aren't  sick  are  busy,  and  I  can't  get  a  messen 
ger.  I  hate  to  trouble  you."  Michael  took  the  note  and 
left.  He  had  no  intention  of  asking  for  Miss  Allard,  but 
the  crippled  child  came  to  the  door,  and,  without  taking  the 
note,  called  "  This  way  "  as  she  limped  along  the  passage. 

Reaching  the  first  landing,  she  threw  open  a  door,  reveal 
ing  Miss  Allard  in  the  meritorious  employment  of  darning 
stockings. 

She  looked  up  quickly  with  an  unruffled  welcome,  but 
with  a  swift  flush  rising  to  her  clear  cheek.  As  she  laid 
the  work-basket  aside  he  noticed  how  neatly  the  small 
packages  were  folded,  and  what  an  air  of  orderliness  per 
vaded  the  room.  He  gave  her  the  note,  and  she  thanked 
him,  but  in  a  precise,  business-like  manner,  as  if  there  was 
no  possible  reason  for  his  lingering.  As  none  suggested 
itself,  he  turned  to  go,  lifting,  at  the  same  time,  an  open  vol 
ume  which  had  slipped  to  the  floor.  It  was  Weismann's 
"  Heredity,"  and  a  sudden  interest  awoke  in  his  face. 

"  You  read  Weismann  ?"  he  asked.  "  Do  you  agree  with 
him  ?" 

"  He  is  interesting,"  responded  Miss  Allard,  with  a  non 
committal  expression.  The  answer  provoked  Michael,  it 
was  so  distinctly  an  evasion  of  his  question  ;  and  to  remark 
that  Weismann  was  interesting  seemed  to  him  as  superflu 
ous  as  remarking  that  pain  was  unpleasant.  There  was  a 
displeased  flash  in  his  eyes,  but  her  indifference  disarmed 
him.  How  can  one  be  angry  with  a  woman  if  the  woman 
doesn't  care  ?  And  apparently  she  clid  not  care.  The  flash 
died  from  his  eyes,  but  they  still  rested  upon  her ;  there 
was  a  trimness  about  her  figure  that  showed  itself  in  the 
narrow  white  bands  at  her  throat  and  wrists,  in  the  set  of 
her  black  gown,  in  the  shimmering  braids  of  her  red  hair. 
She  was  a  woman  that  a  sick  man  might  roll  his  delirious 
eyes  upon  and  feel  refreshed,  or  a  Don  Juan  turn  to  from 
his  voluptuousness  as  he  would  turn  to  pure  water  from 
Eastern  wines.  Michael  was  glad  that  he  had  seen  her,  as 


THE    DESCENDANT  17,5 

we  are  glad  that  we  have  tasted  the  fresh  air  of  the  country 
side. 

His  hand  was  upon  the  door,  and  he  was  passing  out 
when  suddenly  the  memory  of  their  last  conversation  oc 
curred  to  him,  and  he  veered  round.  His  movement  was 
so  sudden  that  Anna,  who  had  risen,  started  back,  and  he 
surprised  the  relief  in  her  eyes. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,"  he  asked,  "  what  you  meant  by  '  the 
other  side '  ?" 

"  'The  other  side'  ?"  repeated  she,  inquiringly. 

"The  side  of  my  work  that  you  had  seen,"  he  explained. 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  her  steadfast  gaze  upon  his 
face.  Her  head  rested  against  a  Persian  scarf,  and  the  dull 
tones  accentuated  the  lights  in  her  glorious  hair. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ?"  she  asked.  The  direction  of  her 
glance  shifted,  and  wandered  through  the  window  to  the 
budding  branches  of  a  tree  without.  "Perhaps  I  should 
not  have  spoken.  Meddling  does  no  good,  and  I'm  not  a 
missionary,  but — but  your  paper  has  a  wide  circulation.  It 
enters  thousands  of  homes  ;  people  read  it  for  your  language 
and  your  style  who  otherwise  would  shrink  from  an  expres 
sion  of  your  opinions.  Its  influence  is  sweeping,  and  its  in 
fluence  is  your  influence."  The  flute-like  quality  of  her  voice 
was  at  its  highest.  Its  penetration  was  almost  painful,  its 
decision  merciless.  "  I  work  among  the  poor — the  very  poor. 
I  see  the  harm  done  by  useless  agitators — by  men  who  write 
and  speak  things  they  dare  not  act  upon,  but  which  igno 
rant  men  and  women  accept  as  a  gospel.  No,  I  do  not  mean 
Mr.  Semple ;  he  does  not  half  the  harm  that  you  do." 

Her  accusing  voice,  pitilessly  clear,  rang  upon  him  like  a 
clarion  ;  before  her  level  glance  his  nervous  lids  quivered 
and  fell.  Then  he  raised  his  head  in  protest,  shaking  back 
the  heavy  waves  of  his  hair. 

"  Harm !"  he  emphasized ;  "your  words  are  badly  chosen." 

"It  is  not  your  motive  that. I  call  harmful,"  she  said, 
more  gently — so  gently  that  he  almost  forgave  her.  "  It  is 
not  your  cause — I  do  not  judge  that — I  but  see  the  effects." 


1 76  THE    DESCENDANT 

"And  they?" 

"  There  was  a  family  upon  Hester  Street,  an  old  woman, 
several  grandchildren,  and  a  boy — a  bright,  enthusiastic  fel 
low,  the  main  support  of  the  family.  He  had  been  the  sup 
port  for  five  years,  and  was  not  more  than  twenty — the  ap 
ple  of  the  old  woman's  eye — 

"  Well  ?"  for  she  had  paused. 

"The  first  time  I  heard  your  name — I  remember  it  well, 
for  the  old  woman  was  sick  and  I  had  gone  to  see  her — The 
Iconoclast  lay  upon  the  table,  a  newspaper  print  of  yourself 
was  pinned  upon  the  wall,  the  boy  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  room.  The  old  woman  was  speaking  ;  she  said,  'Them 
Akershemites  will  be  the  ruin  of  you.'  And  the  boy  rushed 
from  the  room  in  a  rage.  I  asked  her  what  she  meant,  and 
as  she  pointed  to  the  print  of  yourself  she  said,  '  My  boy  is 
possessed  with  his  notions,  and  they  will  be  the  ruin  of  him.' 
The  boy  banded  together  a  small  party,  calling  themselves 
Akershemites ;  they  were  inspired  by  a  hatred  of  their  em 
ployers,  of  every  form  of  restraint.  They  made  depreda 
tions  upon  the  small  storekeepers  in  the  neighborhood, 
which  ended  in  a  row  in  which  one  of  them  was  shot  We 
tried  to  get  the  boy  a  situation,  but  he  would  not  sacrifice 
his  liberty.  The  old  woman  and  the  children  went  to  the 
almshouse,  and  a  month  later  the  boy  cut  his  throat."  She 
had  spoken  coldly  and  distinctly,  but  when  Michael  looked 
at  her  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  suffused  with  tears. 

"  But,"  he  said,  with  an  angry  intonation,  "  you  are  un 
just.  The  boy  did  not  follow  my  teaching.  Clearly  you 
are  ignorant  of  my  doctrines,  else  why  should  you  make  me 
responsible  for  a  lawless  riot  ?" 

"  I  hold  you  indirectly  responsible,"  she  replied.  "  Can 
a  cause  be  good  of  which  the  effects  are  so  disastrous  ? 
Shall  I  go  on  ?" 

"Yes." 

"There  are  many  from  which  to  choose.  I  have  seen 
much  misery.  Some  " — with  a  laugh — "  I  grant  you,  had 
never  heard  your  name,  others  had.  There  was  a  man 


THE    DESCENDANT  177 

with  a  wife  and  five  small  children.  As  long  as  duty  bound 
him  to  his  post  he  supported  them ;  then  he  became  your 
disciple,  and  you — well,  he  deserted  them  for  a  younger 
woman,  that  was  all.  You  may  say  it  was  the  natural  evil 
of  the  man's  nature.  So  it  was.  But  until  your  latitudina- 
rianism  released  him  from  his  conventional  scruples,  that 
nature  was  kept  down  by  training  and  inherited  belief. 
Yours  is  an  ideal  theory,  Mr.  Akershem,  intended  for  an 
ideal  humanity,  with  an  innate  desire  to  do  right  and  a 
superhuman  recognition  of  good  and  evil.  The  world  as 
it  is  to-day  cannot  stand  your  views.  You  have  done 
harm.  But  I  have  said  enough." 

"Yes,"  retorted  Michael,  bitterly,  "you  have  said 
enough."  His  face  was  pallid,  and  his  breath  came  quickly. 
"You  have  sought  to  fling  all  the  misery  of  the  world  upon 
my  shoulders.  This  is  the  result  of  my  honest  endeavor 
to  help  mankind — this — "  His  emotion  touched  her  almost 
against  herself. 

"Is  it  worth  it?"  she  asked,  gently.  "You,  who  can  do 
so  much  good,  is  it  worth  it  ?"  She  reached  out  and  touched 
his  arm  with  a  soothing,  unconscious  gesture,  such  as  she 
would  have  used  to  a  child  in  pain,  but  he  shook  her  hand 
away. 

"Since  you  have  made  me  a  devil  you  are  pleased  to 
pity  me !  Am  I  to  answer  for  every  boy  that  has  killed 
himself,  or  every  man  that  has  deserted  his  wife  ?" 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  are  hurt,"  said  Anna,  "but  I  can 
not  unsay  what  I  have  said." 

"Why  should  you  unsay?"  he  retorted.  "It  is  little  to 
me  what  people  say  of  my — "  Then  he  broke  off  abruptly. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "  Good-afternoon." 

And  he  went  down-stairs,  while  she  returned  to  her 
darning. 

Michael  had  gone  out  raging.  He  was  furious  with  Miss 
Allard,  with  the  world,  with  himself.  The  imperturbability 
of  the  girl's  manner  irritated  him  unbearably.  She  seemed 
so  secure  in  her  position — so  assured  that  right  and  com- 


178  THE    DESCENDANT 

mon-ssnse  were  on  her  side.  If  he  might  have  accused 
her  of  impetuosity,  of  intolerance,  of  exaggeration,  he  would 
have  felt  less  wroth  with  her.  But  she  was  so  wholesome 
ly  practical,  so  free  from  any  morbidity  of  judgment. 

"How  dare  she?"  he  cried,  passionately — "how  dare 
she  hold  me  accountable  for  the  imbecility  of  those  beg 
gars  ?" 

Had  Driscoll,  had  Semple,  had  Rachel  herself  accused 
him  of  wielding  a  heinous  influence  he  might  have  passed 
it  over  with  superficial  concern.  But  a  stranger,  and  that 
stranger  a  woman  who,  like  Miss  Allard,  was  serenely  con 
vinced  of  the  justice  of  her  charge,  and  asserted  as  one  who 
knew  whereof  she  spoke — it  was  maddening ! 

And,  then,  was  it  true  ? 

He  held  his  breath  for  a  moment,  shuddering  at  the  pos 
sibility.  A  curious  revulsion  of  feeling  swept  over  him, 
and  in  an  instant — an  instant  such  as  we  have  all  endured 
—he  realized  the  utter  littleness  of  it  all,  the  pettiness  of 
his  revolt,  and  the  impotence,  for  good  or  evil,  of  his  men 
tal  cyclone. 

Walking  rapidly,  he  passed  his  office  and  turned  into  the 
Bowery.  He  read  the  signs,  "Corned -beef  &  Onions,  10 
cents,"  as  he  had  read  them  for  the  last  seven  years,  with  a 
shrinking  disgust — a  loathing  for  poverty  and  filth.  With 
all  his  socialistic  tendencies,  he  shrank  from  the  unwashed 
half  of  society  with  a  delicacy  that  was  pitiable.  As  near 
ly  united  as  he  stood  to  the  lower  walks  of  life,  the  only 
feeling  that  personal  contact  with  the  representatives  of 
those  walks  aroused  in  him  was  a  feeling  of  profound  dis 
gust.  The  aristocratic  side  of  his  nature  was  strong  enough 
to  overpower  the  radical  in  a  question  of  direct  intercourse 
with  that  portion  of  humanity  to  whom  he  believed  his  ex 
istence  to  be  dedicated.  He  might  declare  the  equality  of 
man  in  a  glowing  paraphrase  while  sitting  next  a  patrician 
in  a  clean  shirt-front,  but  before  a  soggy  inhabitant  of  Bax 
ter  Street  his  enthusiasm  for  human  fellowship  was  lost  in 
the  practical  dissent  of  eyes  and  nostrils. 


THE    DESCENDANT  179 

His  sympathies  were  radical,  his  tastes  aristocratic,  and 
as  yet  he  had  managed  to  equalize  the  two. 

When  he  had  walked  some  distance  he  stopped  before 
the  door  of  a  third-class  bar-room.  After  a  moment's  hes 
itation  he  entered,  nodding  to  the  proprietor  across  the 
counter.  It  was  a  squalid  room,  reeking  with  the  fumes  of 
bad  whiskey,  dense  with  the  smoke  of  bad  cigars.  Several 
straggling  foreigners  lounged  upon  the  tables. 

"Give  me  a  drink,"  said  Michael.  And  as  the  proprie 
tor  filled  his  glass  he  spoke  to  him  with  attempted  famili 
arity.  "You  do  a  good  business?"  he  inquired,  pushing  a 
second  glass  towards  him. 

The  man,  a  heavy  German  with  a  bloated  face  and  an  all- 
over  greasiness,  nodded  gruffly.  "  It  might  be  vorse,"  he 
admitted. 

Upon  the  counter  lay  a  pile  of  papers.  Michael  motioned 
to  them.  "  Do  they  sell  well  ?"  he  asked. 

The  man  nodded,  leering  with  his  bloodshot  eyes. 

"Which  is  ahead?" 

"Ze  Vorld." 

"And  The  Iconoclast  T 

Michael  picked  it  up,  pointing  with  his  forefinger  to  the 
leader.  He  remembered  that  he  had  thought  it  particular 
ly  impressive. 

"  Now,  say,  my  friend,  what  do  you  think  of  this  ?"  he 
asked. 

The  man  drained  his  glass  and  wiped  his  mouth  upon 
the  back  of  his  hand. 

"Zat,"  he  observed,  smacking  his  heavy  lips,  "  ees — vat 
does  you  say  ? — r-rot." 

Michael's  laugh  rang  out  so  suddenly  that  a  group  of 
men  at  the  back  of  the  store  lounged  over,  glasses  in  hand. 

"Zat,"  repeated  the  proprietor,  "ees  r-rot;  but  it  pays." 

"Exactly.  And  the  man  who  writes  that  rot.  You 
know  him  ?" 

"  I  haf  knowed  him.  He  haf  drunk  much  of  my  viskey." 
He  leered  again. 


l8o  THE    DESCENDANT  5» 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him  ?"  He  would  have  liked  to 
have  chucked  the  lying  old  codger  into  the  beer-vat. 

"Ze  man — ze  man  he  knows  as  much  of  life  as  he  knows 
of — sauerkraut." 

"  Exactly,"  observed  the  man  who  had  written  it;  "just 
about  as  much  about  life,  my  old  philosopher,  as  he  does 
about  sauerkraut." 

"  The  Iconoclast  T  called  a  young  fellow  in  a  blue  smock, 
tossing  a  nickel  across  the  counter.  He  took  the  paper 
and  departed. 

"Zat  boy,"  observed  the  philosopher,  "  ees  mad  —  daft 
mad  wid  ze  rot." 

Michael  left  the  shop,  walking  rapidly  in  the  direction  of 
his  office. 

"  Kyle,"  he  said,  suddenly  bursting  into  the  editor's  office, 
"  write  the  leader  for  to-morrow,  will  you  ?" 

Kyle  looked  up  concernedly.  "  Not  used  up  ?"  he  asked. 
"  We  can't  do  without  you.  The  work  would  fall  through." 

"  Damn  the  work !"  said  Michael  Akershem.  And  he 
passed  into  the  next  room,  slamming  the  door  after  him. 
Going  to  the  desk,  he  took  from  it  a  couple  of  printed 
sheets,  and,  folding  them  once?  he  tore  them  deliberately  in 
half,  letting  the  pieces  fall  in^to  the  waste  -  basket.  "  It  is 
rot,"  he  said. 

As  he  went  out  again  Kyle  rose  and  followed  him. 
"  Take  care  of  yourself,"  he  said  ;  "  the  people  rieed  you." 

"  Damn  the  people  !"  responded  Michael  Akershem. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Miss  ALLARD  stood  before  her  mirror.  It  was  morning. 
Through  the  open  window  came  the  cheerful  far-off  sound 
of  church-bells,  ringing  across  all  the  wealth  of  May  and 
sunshine. 

She  had  just  fastened  her  hat  by  means  of  a  silver  hat 
pin,  and  beneath  the  flapping  brim  of  black  all  the  warmth 
of  her  hair  shimmered  with  aureolic  lustre.  The  figure  re 
flected  by  the  mirror  was  a  thing  to  gladden  the  eyes  and 
refresh  the  heart,  rich-hued,  supple,  and  straight-limbed — a 
a  woman  strong  to  endure. 

She  put  up  her  hand,  arranging  with  a  few  careful  touches 
the  muslin  band  at  the  neck  of  her  black  gown.  In  garb 
she  might  have  been  the  sister  of  some  holy  order ;  in  per 
son,  a  pure -eyed  young  rustic,  fresh  from  her  vernal 
showers.  ^ 

She  turned  away,  lifting  the  prayer-book  from  the  bureau. 
In  the  next  room  the  child  called  to  her,  and  she  stood 
looking  down  at  it  with  a  suppressed  anxiety. 

"  Shall  I  stay  with  my  pet  ?"  she  asked. 

But  the  child  shook  her  head.  Marie  was  coming  to 
play.  Marie  was  clever. 

Then  Anna  stooped  to  kiss  her  and  passed  out.  Down 
the  stairs  she  went,  singing  softly  to  herself.  In  the  hall 
below  a  yoting  married  woman  stood  with  her  husband. 
As  Anna  passed  the  woman  turned  and  smiled  upon  him 
with  a  quick,  resistless  tenderness.  The  girl  caught  the 
look  and  imprisoned  it  in  her  own  heart. 

Then  she  opened  the  door  and  stepped  into  the  spring 
sunshine,  and  into  the  presence  of  Michael  Akershem. 

Like  a  vision  she  broke  upon  him  in  the  doorway,  a  sup- 


182  THE   DESCENDANT 

pie,  straight-limbed  figure  with  a  crown  of  ruddy  hair  and 
a  fresh,  grave  smile — a  vision  of  honest,  wholesome  woman 
hood.  The  smile  faded,  he  could  but  notice,  as  she  held 
out  her  hand. 

"  I  wish  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said,  "  about — about  my  work, 
but  I  am  too  late." 

"  I  go  to  my  mission  chapel,"  she  said.  And  added, 
"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  come." 

"  Are  you  also  engaged  in  cramming  religion  down  inde 
fensible  throats,"  he  asked — "  in  offering  a  creed  in  place 
of  bread  ?" 

But  he  walked  beside  her  through  all  the  supernal  radi 
ance  of  the  springtime. 

"  It  is  more  digestible,  at  least,  than  the  bread  that  you 
offer,"  she  said.  "  Stolen  food  sits  heavily.  You  from 
your  office  chair  offer  them,  through  the  medium  of  a  news 
paper,  the  belongings  of  other  people ;  we  go  among  them, 
working  to  impart  a  love  of  cleanliness  and  order,  to  fight 
the  effect  of  your  influence.  Our  maxim  is  that  the  object 
of  religion  is  to  add  to  the  general  happiness — a  utilitarian 
dogma,  you  see,  but  it  has  served  us  well.  And  you — what 
do  you  know  of  the  poor  ?" 

"Nothing;  I  know  as  much  of  New  York  tenement  life 
as  I  know  of  the  tenement  life  upon  Mars."  He  looked 
into  her  fresh,  plain -featured  face,  and  met  her  amused 
glance. 

"O  Apostle  of  Modernism  !"  she  said,  "  whose  conviction 
is  in  proportion  to  his  ignorance.  If  this  hysterical  century 
could  taste  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  how  many  '  isms  '  would 
go  to  air !  Do  you  know,  you  remind  me  of  the  small  boy 
who  said  in  his  composition,  '  Human  beings  don't  eat  to 
matoes,'  and  when  asked  for  his  authority,  replied :  '  I 
don't'!" 

But  Michael  did  not  laugh.  He  never  laughed  except 
when  he  was  amused,  and  Anna  did  not  amuse  him.  He 
felt  that  she  must  be  taken  seriously,  and  that  in  her  mirth 
she  belied  herself, 


THE   DESCENDANT  183 

As  Michael  entered  the  little  chapel  he  seemed  awkward 
ly  at  a  disadvantage.  Since  his  childhood  he  had  not  been 
inside  of  a  church,  and  there  surged  upon  his  memory,  over 
borne  by  later  experiences,  the  phantom  recollections  of  his 
youth — gloomy  phantoms,  thronging  ghoul-like  above  the 
graves  of  his  childhood  years. 

He  sat  through  the  short  service  rapt  and  abstracted, 
hearing  not  the  voice  of  the  preacher,  seeing  not  the  white 
washed  walls  nor  the  work-worn  faces  of  the  congregation. 

Beside  him  sat  Anna  Allard,  her  pure  face  uplifted,  the 
glory  of  her  hair  "  making  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place," 
but  he  knew  her  not. 

Manhood,  the  errors  of  ignorance,  the  sins  of  knowledge, 
had  passed  from  him  with  the  heated  world  without.  The 
whitewashed  walls  were  the  walls  of  the  little  chapel  upon 
the  hillside  ;  the  slow  voice  of  the  preacher,  the  voice  of  his 
childhood's  friend;  the  gaudy  stained-glass  window  above 
the  altar,  the  window  he  had  stared  at  upon  a  Sunday  until 
he  had  known  the  colors  in  Charity's  robe  and  the  features 
upon  the  beggar's  face,  tint  for  tint. 

He  was  back  again,  and  he  was  young  and  eager,  with  his 
passions  surging  fresh  and  strong,  and  the  power  for  loving 
good  and  hating  evil  swelling  unsubdued  within  his  breast. 
Upon  his  right  hand  sat  the  farmer,  his  heavy  head  nod 
ding  from  side  to  side,  and  beyond  him  the  farmer's  wife, 
her  black  straw  bonnet  tied  by  purple  strings,  the  pin  in 
her  carpet- shawl  standing  in  dagger -like  erectness ;  and 
in  the  long  pew  at  their  side  the  ten  children,  in  ten  blue- 
checked  pinafores,  with  ten  flaxen  braids,  from  Betty,  who 
lent  the  gospel  hymns  the  ardor  of  a  war-cry,  to  little  Luly, 
whose  drowsy  head  nodded  like  a  flower  upon  its  stalk. 

And  the  voice,  falling  sad  and  stern  :  "  For  all  that  is  of 
the  world,  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  and  the  lust  of  the  eyes,  and 
the  pride  of  life  is  not  of  the  Father,  but  of  the  world.  .  .  . 
And  the  world  passeth  away,  and  the  lust  thereof;  but  he 
that  doeth  the  will  of  God  abideth  forever — " 

Abideth  forever ! 


1 84      ,  THE   DESCENDANT 

And  beneath  the  minister's  eye,  in  the  foremost  pew,  sits 
pretty  Emily  in  her  blue-lined  bonnet,  her  eyes  cast  heaven 
ward  like  a  saint — eyes  not  more  blue  than  saint-like,  not 
more  saint-like  than  sunny. 

Ah,  pretty,  pretty  Emily,  the  desire  of  his  youth !  And 
from  the  height  of  Emily  he  descends  to  the  peaks  of  tbe 
far-off,  smoke-wreathed  mountains,  terrible  in  their  eternal 
calm.  Those  mountains  were  to  him  the  limits  of  the 
world,  godlike  barriers,  beyond  which  yawned  the  color 
less  gulf  of  infinity.  Now  he  had  crossed  those  barriers, 
and  had  found  that  the  finite  was  only  a  little  less  removed, 
the  infinite  unthinkable. 

Again  the  voice:  "  For  this  is  the  promise  that  He  hath 
promised  us,  even  life  eternal.  .  .  ." 

Life  eternal ! 

Why,  he  has  but  to  turn  his  head,  he  knows,  and  life  and 
the  tumult  of  living  will  be  over  and  done  with;  but  one 
step  from  the  passionate  noise  of  time  to  the  passionless 
silence  of  eternity. 

Beyond  the  vine-wrapped  walls  of  the  church,  beyond  the 
moss-grown  ledge  of  the  open  window,  the  long,  pale  grasses, 
a  visible  dirge,  bend  above  the  storm-stained  marble  slabs. 
From  his  corner  of  the  pew  upon  the  Sundays  of  nineteen 
years  he  has  watched  three  of  these  marble  slabs,  standing 
like  sentinels  above  three  sunken  graves. 

"  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Mary  Elizabeth  !" 

"  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Hannah  Maria !" 

"  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Susan  Virginia  I1' 

How  alike  they  must  have  been,  those  sisters,  and  what 
small  sisters,  whose  memories  were  protected  by  three  tiny 
slabs  and  three  fallen  graves !  Why,  one  pale,  long  grass 
was  not  more  like  unto  another  than  was  one  sunken  grave 
to  the  sunken  graves  beside  it. 

And  again  he  heard  a  voice  that  was  not  the  voice  of  the 
preacher,  but  the  voice  of  a  royal  philosopher,  sounding 
along  the  ages,  and  speaking,  in  living  tones,  across  nigh 
two  thousand  years  ;  and  the  voice  spoke,  saying : 


THE    DESCENDANT  185 

"Consider  that  soon  thou  wilt  be  ashes,  and  either  a 
name,  or  not  even  a  name ;  and  a  name  is  but  sound  and 
echo.  .  .  .  And  the  things  which  are  valued  in  life  are  empty 
and  rotten  and  trifling,  and  justice  and  truth  are  fled.  .  .  . 
Throwing  away,  then,  all  things,  hold  to  those  only  which 
are  few.  .  .  ." 

A  name  is  but  sound  and  echo  ! 

And  for  the  sake  of  a  sound  and  an  echo  he  had  striven 
long  and  suffered  and  been  sore  bespent.  He  had  put 
aside  reason  and  the  quiet  which  reason  begets,  and  had 
toiled  in  a  world  amidst  the  little  things  thereof,  which  were 
many,  forsaking  the  great,  which  were  few. 

"For  the  soul  is  a  whirl,  and  fortune  hard  to  divine,  and 
fame  a  thing  devoid  of  judgment.  .  .  .  And  everything 
which  belongs  to  the  body  is  a  stream,  and  what  belongs  to 
the  soul  is  a  dream  and  a  vapor,  and  life  is  a  warfare  and  a 
stranger's  sojourn,  and  after-fame  is  oblivion.  .  .  ." 

Fame  is  but  sound  and  echo  ! 

And  his  greed  of  glory,  his  lust  of  power,  the  pride  of  his 
eyes,  were  less  in  the  immutable  void  of  eternity  than  the 
waving  of  the  long,  pale  grasses  in  the  wind. 

"  I  shall  give  you  a  chance  to  extend  your  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  Mr.  Akershem." 

He  turned  almost  instantly,  to  meet  Anna  Allard's  eyes. 
Apparently  the  service  had  had  no  depressing  effect  on 
her ;  she  was  as  cheerful  as  usual. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  desirable,"  he  answered,  shortly. 

"I  am  sure  that  it  is  desirable  for  other  people,"  re 
turned  she.  "Perhaps  if  you  knew  them  a  little  better 
you'd  let  them  alone." 

Her  frankness  irritated  him  again  ;  for  all  his  concessions 
she  had  not  yielded  a  letter  of  her  convictions;  and  he 
knew  that  she  entertained  not  the  remotest  intention  of  so 
doing.  The  unswerving  constancy  of  purpose  at  once  per- 
plexed  and  attracted  him  ;  it  was  the  subtle  force  that  exer 
cised  its  ascendency  over  his  nature  in  its  new-born  uncer- 


186  THE   DESCENDANT 

tainty.  Weakening  in  his  own,  stability  of  convictions  in 
another  he  recognized  wonderingly. 

They  had  turned  into  Mulberry  Street,  and  the  density 
of  the  atmosphere  oppressed  him.  The  old  loathing,  the 
old  intolerable  disgust  for  poverty  seized  upon  him,  and  he 
longed  to  flee  to  cleanliness  and  space. 

Through  swarms  of  Italian  women,  deep-bosomed  and 
heavy  of  tread,  they  passed  rapidly.  The  broken,  guttural 
tones,  robbed  of  their  native  melody,  grated  upon  Michael's 
ears ;  the  stale  odors  of  decaying  vegetables  stored  in  reek 
ing  cellars  offended  his  nostrils.  He  hated  it  all,  hated  the 
squalor,  the  filth,  the  inevitable  degradation.  It  was  an 
everlasting  reminder  of  the  destiny  that  he  had  missed  by  a 
slip  of  the  cup. 

Anna  Allard  passed  along  with  healthy  indifference,  her 
skirts  held  slightly  aside,  her  brows  unbent.  Again  her  per 
sonality  impressed  him  in  its  forcible  uprightness.  She 
possessed,  in  a  great  measure,  that  illusive  quality  called 
goodness,  which  so  few  good  people  possess,  and  which 
may  be  defined  as  a  mean  between  spiritual  unsophistica- 
tion  and  worldly  wisdom.  It  was  said  of  Miss  Allard  that 
she  was  good,  implying  that  a  persuasive  sanctity  was  one 
of  her  attributes — a  sixth  sense,  as  it  were,  conveying  re 
ligious  impressions.  Whether  the  impression  conveyed  was 
as  potent  as  the  manner  of  conveying  it  or  not  is  a  subject 
for  dispute,  and  one  upon  which  my  profane  pen  need  offer 
no  suggestion. 

But  Michael  felt,  without  defining,  the  attraction.  It  was 
not  Miss  Allard's  indomitable  rectitude  that  caused  him  to 
become  conscious  of  a  state  of  moral  inanition  ;  it  was  the 
charm  with  which  she  managed  to  endow  that  rectitude.  A 
Mulberry  Street  missionary,  possessing  a  withered  profile 
and  a  shrinking  manner,  might  have  been  doubly  virtuous 
with  but  slight  success.  And,  after  all,  there  are  few  of  us 
capable  of  dissociating  the  attraction  of  virtue  from  the  at 
traction  of  the  earthly  habiliments  which  it  chooses  to 
adopt.  They  left  Mulberry  Street,  and  she  took  him  into 


THE    DESCENDANT  187 

several  tenements,  bringing  him  face  to  face  with  the  powers 
of  poverty  and  dirt.  A  terrible  pity  took  possession  of  him, 
a  pity  prompting  him  to  sit  in  his  office  chair  and  hurl  edi 
torial  thunderbolts  at  the  oppressors  of  the  poor.  There 
was  no  desire  to  speak  to  them  or  to  touch  them  ;  there 
was  a  sensitive  shrinking  from  the  crippled  man  upon  his 
pallet  bed,  and  from  the  little  red-eyed  seamstress  in  her 
curl-papers  and  her  soiled  gown.  He  started  when  Anna 
Allard  lifted  an  unwashed  baby  in  her  arms.  And  yet  the 
memory  of  her  as  she  stood  there  clung  to  him  and  followed 
him  far  into  the  night.  A  young  Madonna,  the  straight  and 
supple  figure,  the  outstretched  arms,  the  wonderful  tender 
ness  upon  her  fresh  -  hued  face,  the  wonderful,  wonderful 
halo  of  her  hair;  and,  above  and  beyond  it  all,  the  rays  of 
sunshine  falling,  white  and  holy,  into  the  squalid  room,  fall 
ing  like  a  benediction  upon  woman  and  child,  wrapping  in 
a  luminous  stillness  child  and  woman — an  eternal  symbol 
of  an  eternal  motherhood. 

At  that  moment  he  realized  the  emptiness  of  ambition, 
the  futility  of  reward.  Was  he  who  loathed  pain  the  one 
to  close  the  gaping  wound  ?  He  who  shrank  from  filth  the 
one  to  purge  from  uncleanliness  ? 

And  ambition  ?  What  a  petty  thing  it  is  in  the  midst  of 
a  world  of  men,  living,  begetting,  and  passing  into  dust ! 

"  For  fame  is  a  thing  devoid  of  judgment,  and  after- 
fame  oblivion,  and  a  name  is  but  sound  and  echo." 

He  walked  the  streets  that  night  pursued  by  his  self-dis 
trust.  He  despised  himself  that  he  had  fought  for  the  sake 
of  fighting,  not  for  the  sake  of  the  cause  ;  for  what  men 
might  say  of  him  he  had  wrestled  for  the  things  that  were, 
baptizing  his  battle-field  with  bloody  sweat.  For  a  name 
he  had  given  his  salvation. 

"  And  a  name  is  but  sound  and  echo." 

Onward  before  him  in  the  night,  against  the  blackness 
of  drawn  clouds,  moved  the  memory  of  Anna  Allard,  the 
holy  of  holies  in  her  eyes,  her  eyes  upon  the  young  child. 
What  was  it  that  brought  that  look  into  a  woman's  face  ? 


188  THE    DESCENDANT 

What  might  a  man  not  sustain,  smiling,  for  the  sake  of  such 
a  look  ? 

Then,  like  a  flash,  one  word  broke  upon  his  thoughts, 
and  he  paused  and  stood  still  as  if  he  hearkened  to  a 
spoken  name — "  Rachel !" 

Could  it  be  that  he  had  forgotten  Rachel  ?  Rachel  who, 
he  had  told  himself,  was  the  breath  of  his  life  !  Rachel  whom 
he  had  loved  with  the  passion  of  his  youth  and  the  strength 
of  his  manhood ! 

He  went  to  her  studio,  and  found  her  light  still  burning. 
As  he  entered  she  gave  a  little  cry,  and  ran  towards  him 
with  outstretched  hands. 

"  Why,  Mike,  you  bad,  bad  boy,  where  have  you  been  ?" 

Her  gladness,  her  trust,  her  utter  lack  of  suspicion, 
touched  him,  and  he  stooped  to  kiss  her  with  a  poignant 
sense  of  remorse. 

As  she  looked  up  at  him  a  sudden  fear,  vague  and  illu 
sive,  flamed  in  her  face,  and  she  spoke  quickly : 

"  Mike,  is  there  anything  wrong  ?" 

"Wrong!     No,  dear." 

And  then  a  sudden  cowardly  shame  took  possession  of 
him,  for  he  had  noticed  the  details  of  her  toilet,  and  con 
trasted  the  careless  drapery,  the  wind-blown  hair,  with 
Anna  Allard's  dainty  trimness.  Rachel  was  beautiful  just 
then,  but,  to  do  him  justice,  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  over 
borne  by  physical  beauty ;  it  was  only  an  attribute  to  him, 
not  a  thing  desirable  for  its  own  sake. 

It  was  cowardly  to  criticise  Rachel ;  he  had  never  done 
so  before;  and  yet  at  that  moment  the  fall  of  her  gown 
seemed  careless,  the  loosened  coil  of  her  hair  a  trifle  un 
kempt.  He  hated  himself  for  the  thought,  but  the  thought 
would  not  be  shut  out. 

Then  he  started,  for  the  girl,  who  had  been  watching  him, 
suddenly  threw  herself  upon  him  with  a  breathless  sob. 

"  Love  me  !  love  me  !  love  me  !"  she  cried.  "  I  care  for 
nothing  but  you — nothing  but  you  !  Let  the  world  despise 
me,  but  you — you  love  me  !" 


THE   DESCENDANT  189 

Her  eyes,  deep  and  solemn,  like  the  heart  of  a  storm, 
bound  him  by  a  spell ;  the  slim  white  hands  clung  to  him 
and  would  not  let  him  go. 

With  a  swift  repentance  he  caught  her  to  him.  "My 
star !"  he  said. 

Still  her  eyes  cast  over  him  their  wonderful  spell.  "  Swear 
that  you  love  me— swear  it !" 

"  I  swear  it !" 

She  threw  back  her  head  with  one  of  her  impetuous 
movements,  her  face  gleaming  whiter  in  the  dim  light,  a 
rapturous  worship  thrilling  in  her  voice. 

"  I  adore  you  !"  she  said. 

Again  the  cursed  thought :  Would  a  good  woman  have 
loved  him  as  Rachel  loved  him  ?  Was  not  the  worship  she 
offered  up  to  him  a  proof  of  her  own  unworthiness  ?  Nay, 
a  good  woman  sees  ever  between  herself  and  the  man  she 
loves  the  inviolable  shield  of  her  own  honor ! 

Ah,  the  thrice-accursed  thought !  Would  it  never  let  him 
rest? 

It  was  the  old,  old  expiation  that  Nature  has  demanded 
and  woman  paid  since  the  day  upon  which  woman  and  de 
sire  met  and  knew  each  other. 

Ah,  the  old,  old  expiation  1 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"  HELLO,  Shem  !" 

Akershem  looked  up. 

"Your  entrance  is  rough  on  nerves,"  he  remarked,  irri 
tably. 

Driscoll  leaned  in  the  doorway,  surveying  the  world  in 
general  and  the  editor  in  particular  with  his  accustomed 
complacency. 

"  I  say,  Shem,  what  is  the  matter  with  The  Iconoclast  1" 

Akershem  shifted  uneasily,  running  his  hand  impatiently 
through  his  hair.  He  looked  worn  and  harassed,  and  the 
lines  upon  his  forehead  had  deepened. 

"  Matter  ?"  he  echoed.     "  Why,  nothing." 

Driscoll  shook  out  a  folded  paper  and  held  it  towards 
him. 

"  For  the  past  fortnight  who  has  served  us  with  edito 
rials?"  he  asked.  "Not  yourself,  my  good  fellow;  and 
don't  tell  me  that  this  is  Kyle's  work,  for  I  know  better. 
Why,  here  are  two  whole  columns,  and  not  an  abusive  epithet 
to  speak  of.  Who's  your  man  ?" 

Michael  kicked  the  paper  viciously  under  the  desk. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  got  Springer  to  do  it.  He's  one  of 
our  reporters,  you  know — a  sensible  fellow — " 

"  That  fool !     Why  don't  you  do  the  work  yourself  ?" 

"Confound  your  catechizing!     I'll  not  have  it!" 

Driscoll  gave  a  long,  low  whistle.  "  Well,  of  all  the 
dashed  impudence  !"  he  said  ;  then  added,  amiably,  "  I'm  off 
to  Java,  you  know." 

"To  Java?" 

"  Oh,  the  reports  of  Dr.  Dubois  and  his  Pleistocene  dis 
covery  made  me  feverish.  I  am  convinced  that  only  crim- 


THE    DESCENDANT  iqr 

inal  negligence  has  prevented  our  verifying  Darwinism  by 
producing  the  bones  of  our  ancestors.  I'll  satisfy  myself 
in  regard  to  the  Java  find,  and  then  I'll  get  up  an  anthropo 
logical  expedition  for  the  purpose  of  making  explorations 
in  tropical  Asia.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  man  origi 
nated  thereabouts,  and  I  intend  to  search  for  the  exact 
spot."  His  eyes  were  glowing  with  enthusiasm,  his  face 
flushed.  The  old  restless  spirit  was  in  possession.  He 
pursued  the  dangerous,  sweet  divinity — change. 

Akershem  was  devoid  of  sympathy.  "  What  a  pity  you 
weren't  born  a  beggar!"  he  said;  "you  might  have  accom 
plished  something." 

Perhaps  of  the  affections  of  Michael's  life  the  affection 
for  John  Driscoll  was  the  strongest ;  certainly  it  was  the 
steadiest.  And  yet  when  Driscoll  had  gone  he  felt  vaguely 
relieved  ;  he  half  wished  that  the  Java  scheme  would  ma 
terialize.  For  the  past  two  weeks  he  had  been  undergoing 
a  curious  revulsion  from  his  old  nature,  and  the  presence 
of  Driscoll  seemed  a  living  reproach.  And  with  his  new 
born  sensitiveness  he  dreaded  reproach  ;  he  craved  not  only 
self-esteem,  but  the  esteem  of  his  fellow-men. 

Impatiently  he  rose,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  uncar- 
peted  floor.  He  felt  feverish,  alert — eager  to  sweep  the  past 
aside,  and  to  start,  unfettered,  in  pursuit  of  the  future. 

With  the  past  he  knew  that  Rachel  was  associated ; 
Rachel,  who  had  given  him  life  when  he  was  famished, 
sympathy  when  he  was  sore  beset ;  Rachel,  Avho  had  been 
passionately  content  to  cast  her  art  and  ambition  as  a  step 
ping-stone  before  his  feet,  and  who,  when  upon  that  step 
ping-stone  he  could  not  reach  the  goal,  had  raised  it  by  the 
throw  of  her  own  heart. 

The  morning  sunlight  flitted  across  the  floor,  bringing  to 
his  memory  the  flitting  figure  of  Rachel — Rachel,  with  lumi 
nous  eyes,  with  tender,  quivering  lips,  the  Love  who  had 
been  offered  up  upon  the  altar  of  his  own  divinity. 

Upon  the  scales  of  his  judgment  his  life  and  his  life's 
ambition  were  found  wanting  when  weighed  in  the  balance 


IQ2  THE    DESCENDANT 

with  Rachel's.  And  yet,  though  Rachel  was  fair,  Rachel  be 
longed  to  the  past — to  the  past,  with  his  old  bitterness  that 
needed  a  balm,  his  old  ambition  that  craved  a  ballast. 

In  his  future  Rachel  had  no  place.  Now  he  wanted 
more — far  more — than  Rachel  could  give.  He  wanted  the 
one  thing  that  she  had  not.  He  wanted  the  honor  of  good 
men  and  good  women.  He  wanted  a  clean  future,  unbe- 
smirched  by  any  blot  upon  the  closed  pages  of  his  past. 

Then,  dimly,  as  one  who  sees  through  a  glass  darkly,  he 
felt  that  the  respect  he  wanted  was  the  respect  of  Anna 
Allard,  the  homage  of  her  fearless  rectitude,  her  implacable 
honor.  To  him,  in  his  limited  experience,  the  esteem  of 
Anna  Allard  meant  the  esteem  of  the  other  half  of  the 
world — the  better  half,  with  its  trust  and  purity  and  faith. 

He  knew  then,  and  he  had  always  known,  that  the  desire 
for  Anna  Allard  was  not  the  desire  for  love.  Love  in  his 
nature  must  hold  ever  a  secondary  place — must  serve  ever 
as  the  handmaid  of  ambition.  And  with  love  he  had  been 
surfeited — but  honor  lay  still  unattained. 

And  he  felt  no  remorse  before  the  memory  of  Rachel. 
It  seemed  to  him  but  natural  that  she  should  fill  the  part 
which  she  had  chosen  in  his  life.  If  she  was  to  be  buried, 
a  victim  to  his  discarded  theories,  it  was  because  she  had 
accepted  those  theories,  discarding  upon  her  side  the  laws 
of  her  conscience.  And  the  thought  again  :  A  pure  woman 
would  have  spurned  passion  for  the  sake  of  principle ! 

Ah,  the  old,  old  expiation  ! 

A  man  is  never  so  merciless  as  to  a  dead  desire,  never 
so  implacable  as  to  the  woman  whom  he  has  once  loved 
and  loves  no  longer.  In  the  whole  course  of  his  life  Mi 
chael  had  never  been  so  severe  as  he  was  to  Rachel  Gavin, 
never  so  unmerciful  as  when  he  held  himself  most  just. 
And  he  judged  her  as  he  had  never  judged  himself,  be 
cause  with  himself  the  wrong  had  not  been  of  his  own  be 
getting,  but  had  descended  to  him  in  place  of  a  name.  But 
Rachel — with  Rachel  it  had  been  love,  not  mistaken  prin 
ciple,  and  it  was  for  that  love  that  he  judged  her, 


THE   DESCENDANT  193 

"  Please,  sir,  will  you  speak  to  me  ?" 

With  a  start  he  turned  to  meet  her  brimming  glance.  She 
stood  before  him,  dressed  as  he  had  first  seen  her — in  the 
artist's  blouse  and  cap,  with  a  drawing-block  in  her  hand 
and  her  hand  outstretched.  At  the  apparition  he  fell  back, 
surprised  into  a  quick  remorse ;  then  he  looked  at  her,  and 
his  heart  hardened.  Had  he  found  her  overburdened  with 
a  sense  of  her  own  unworthiness  it  might  have  been  differ 
ent.  At  a  word  of  serious  realization,  he  told  himself,  his 
anger  would  have  melted.  But,  alas  !  poor  Rachel  -,  respon 
sibility  sat  restlessly  upon  her — all  eyes  are  not  dimmed  by 
tears. 

What  was  life  to  her,  he  asked  himself,  if  she  met  it  so 
lightly?  Had  she  not  played  with  ambition  as  with  a  toy, 
and  might  not  love  be  as  frivolously  dealt  with  ?  Why 
should  he  fan  the  waning  embers  of  his  remorse  for  the 
sake  of  a  pain  that  would  be  over  and  done  with  in  the 
curl  of  an  eyelash  ?  And  his  heart  hardened,  and  he  drew 
back. 

"  I  forced  an  entrance,"  said  Rachel ;  "  a  guard  in  the 
guise  of  a  reporter  tried  to  stop  me,  but  I  told  him  that  I 
had  important  news  about  the  murder  trial,  so  he  let  me  in. 
Aren't  you  glad  he  did  ?" 

She  laughed,  and  by  that  laugh  she  lost  her  kingdom.  A 
well  of  merriment  overflowed  and  rippled  upon  the  air; 
laughter  was  in  her  deep,  gray  eyes,  where  the  tears  were 
hardly  dry,  laughter  was  upon  her  lips,  laughter  dimpled 
across  cheek  and  brow;  she  was  all  laughter.  The  little 
cap  upon  her  head  slipped  jauntily  aside,  and  the  dark  line 
of  hair  was  sharply  defined  upon  her  white,  blue-veined 
forehead.  She  was  the  old,  audacious  Rachel,  whom  he 
had  met  and  pondered  over  some  two  years  ago — a  charm 
ing  Rachel,  but  a  Rachel  whose  day  was  done. 

"Aren't  you  glad?"  she  repeated,  and  she  rested  her 
hands  upon  his  shoulders  and  looked  into  his  face.  "  Don't 
you  want  those  items  dreadfully  ?" 

"  I  am  busy,"  he  answered. 


IQ4  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  ?"  she  questioned,  lightly,  as 
if  forcing  a  foregone  conclusion.  As  she  spoke  she  gave 
him  a  little  shake. 

"  I  am  busy." 

"Busy!  Nonsense!  Why,  you  were  walking  up  and 
down  this  blessed  floor  as  idle  as — as  that  reporter.  What 
were  you  thinking  of  ?" 

"  Many  things." 

"  What  ?     Was  I  among  them  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Really  ?  Then  if  you  have  time  to  think  of  me,  why 
haven't  you  time  to  talk  to  me  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking  seriously." 

"  Well,  I  never  !     And  can't  you  talk  seriously,  too  ?" 

"  To  you  ?"  he  asked,  and  smiled.  "  Why,  you  look  like 
an  escaped  sunbeam." 

"  What  a  pretty  speech  !  But  shall  I  look  like  a  cloud  ?" 
And  she  bent  her  heavy  brows  upon  him,  closing  her  eyes 
until  only  the  smutty  purple  shadows  under  them  Avere  visi 
ble.  "  Do  you  like  me  now  ?" 

"It  does  not  suit  you." 

"What  is  the  matter?  Are  you  angry?"  Something 
tender  and  childish  about  her  smote  him  suddenly  with  a 
sharp  pain.  How  young  she  looked  ! 

"  Oh  no  !"  he  answered  ;  "  not  that,  dear." 

"  Am  I  good  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Am  I  pretty  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  what  is  the  matter?  Why  can't  you  become  nice 
and  good-humored  ?" 

Then  like  a  flash  all  the  gayety  vanished ;  a  wondering 
look  settled  upon  her  face,  and  the  sweet,  fresh  merriment 
fled. 

"  There  is  something  wrong,  dearest ;  what  is  it  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  ;  but,  with  a  sudden,  passionate  inten 
sity,  she  spoke  : 


THE   DESCENDANT  195 

"  How  dare  you  say  nothing  is  wrong  when  you  look 
like  that?  Something  is  wrong,  and  I  will  know!  I  will 
know !" 

"  What  will  you  know  ?" 

"  Why  you  look  like  this — why  you  wish  me  to  go — what 
it  all  means.  Tell  me  !" 

He  took  her  hands  very  gently.  What  slender  hands  they 
were  ! 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong  that  I  can  tell  you,  Rachel ; 
nothing  is  wrong.  Shall  I  go  out  with  you  for  a  walk  ?" 

"  No." 

All  the  slumbering  force  of  her  nature  had  awakened,  and 
thrilled  in  her  voice.  For  a  moment  she  was  silent ;  then, 
drawing  her  hands  from  his  grasp,  she  stood  white  and 
straight  before  him.  The  words  came  slowly  : 

"For  some  time,  Mike,  I  have  felt — I  mean  I  have 
thought  —  that  —  that  something  had  come  between  us.  I 
tried  not  to  see  it  •,  but  one  cannot  shut  one's  eyes,  and — 
and  I  fear  that  it  is  so." 

"  Rachel !" 

"  What  it  is  I  do  not  know.  I  have  thought  and  thought 
until  my  head  ached,  and  I  could  think  of  nothing  that  I 
had  done  or  said  that  could  have  made  the  difference." 
Her  voice  was  clear  and  steady  now.  "  It  may  be  that  I 
am  mistaken.  If  I  have  been  unjust,  forgive  me.  I  know 
you  have  many  things  to  do  in  life  besides  to  love  ;  and  yet " 
— then  she  looked  at  him,  her  solemn  eyes  summoning  him 
to  judgment — "  is  it  true  ?"  she  said. 

"  Rachel !"  A  note  of  pity  softened  his  voice,  and,  like 
a  flash,  it  told  upon  her.  He  almost  held  his  breath  at 
the  change.  A  warm  light  leaped  to  her  face ;  the  flame  in 
her  eyes  blinded  him  as  they  swept  over  him,  hot  with  pain. 
She  drew  back,  straightening  herself  to  her  full  height  as  to 
withstand  a  charge,  and  throwing  back  her  head  with  a 
gesture  of  resistless  pride. 

"Because  I  have  loved  you,"  she  said,  "do  not  think 
that  I  cannot  forget  you." 


196  THE    DESCENDANT 

He  moved  forward,  but  the  coldness  of  her  voice  checked 
him,  and  he  stood  still. 

"  If  we  have  played  with  love,"  she  said,  "we  have  played 
with  it  together,  and  neither  of  us  has  been  wounded  in  the 
farce.  I  need  no  pity.  I  chose  to  love  you,  and,  when  I 
choose,  I  can  forget  you." 

Then  her  voice  broke,  and  she  fell  to  trembling  as  he 
reached  forward  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "  My  dear ! 
my  love !"  he  cried,  "forgive  me  !  I  am  only  a  poor  blun 
dering  fool ;  forgive  me  !" 

But  her  vehemence  had  died  away,  leaving  her  weak  and 
sobbing  upon  his  breast.  "  I — I  lied,"  she  said.  "  I  love 
you — and  I  did  not  choose  to  love  you — and — and  I  can't 
forget  you." 

He  loved  her  still,  he  told  himself.  He  did  not  tell  him 
self,  but  perhaps  he  dimly  felt,  that  it  was  a  love  from  which 
reverence  was  slipping  away.  What  he  could  not  tell  him 
self  was  that  this  mental  revolution,  which  shadowed  Rachel, 
was  the  result  of  an  illumination  cast  for  him  by  Rachel 
herself  upon  human  life — and  human  fulfilments.  His  love 
for  her  had  been  born  of  a  desire  for  the  unattainable,  and 
had  fed  upon  sympathy ;  and  that  sympathy  failing  to  ex 
tend  to  changed  conditions,  he  found  that  mere  love  was  of 
all  things  frail  the  frailest. 

He  kissed  her  and  cursed  himself ;  and,  with  sobs  still 
echoing  in  her  voice,  she  left  him  and  went  into  the  street. 

At  first  she  walked  heavily,  feeling  wretched  and  undone. 
But  the  air  was  so  fresh,  the  sky  so  blue,  the  world  so  pul 
sating  with  energy,  that  one  must  put  aside  borrowed  cares 
and  be  glad  with  nature.  And,  after  all,  it  had  been  a  mis 
take — he  loved  her,  she  was  sure  he  loved  her,  and  what 
mattered  all  else  ?  So  she  quickened  her  steps  and  walked 
briskly  along  the  crowded  streets,  shooting  soft,  luminous 
glances  from  beneath  her  drooping  lids,  putting  away  doubt 
and  distrust. 

Then  as  she  reached  her  door  she  caught  sight  of  an 
organ-grinder  with  a  monkey  upon  his  back,  and  she  called 


THE    DESCENDANT  197 

to  the  man,  taking  the  grinning  little  animal  from  him  and 
caressing  it  in  her  arms.  It  was  so  cunning  and  so  tiny ; 
and  when  it  climbed  upon  her  shoulders  and  laid  violent 
hands  upon  her  cap  she  forgot  her  depression  and  bubbled 
with  delight. 

"  He's  such  a  little  dear,"  she  said  to  the  man — "  such  a 
darling  little  dear."  And  she  gave  him  the  change  in  her 
purse. 

Then  the  man,  who  was  an  Italian  and  skilled  in  beggary, 
doffed  his  battered  hat.  "  The  Lord  bless  your  sunshiny 
face,"  he  said ;  and  he  made  the  monkey  practise  his  ridicu 
lous  little  tricks,  while  the  sunshiny  face  shone  upon  him 
and  the  sweet  laugh  rang  out. 

A  passer-by,  one  who  was  once  young  but  was  now  old, 
and  whose  youth  and  age  had  been  spent  in  the  ways  that 
lead  to  the  getting  of  wealth,  heard  the  laugh  and  turned 
to  see  from  whence  it  came.  He  saw,  and  his  withered 
heart  grew  green  again  at  the  sight,  and  he  forgot,  for  the 
moment,  that  joy  was  vain  and  gold  the  only  good.  "A 
happy  woman,"  he  said,  and  smiled  enviously. 

And  yet  where  the  laughter  sparkled  in  the  deep,  gray 
eyes  the  tears  were  hardly  dried ;  in  the  rippling  laugh,  if 
one  listened,  one  heard  the  echo  of  a  sob,  and  beneath  the 
mirth,  in  her  heart,  a  heaviness  was  weighing  her  down. 

Alas,  poor  Rachel !  all  eyes  are  not  dimmed  by  tears. 


CHAPTER   IX 

SUMMER  had  come — throbbing,  passionate  summer,  when 
Nature  had  ripened  into  the  fulness  of  maternity.  The 
earth  had  quickened  joyously  into  fertility ;  not  a  meadow 
but  teemed  with  emerald  verdure,  not  a  barren  space  but 
grew  pregnant  with  life. 

In  the  city  the  fog  of  soot  and  smoke  hung  heavily  ;  the 
sweet,  glad  sunshine,  reaching  the  tenement  roofs,  shifted 
in  leaden  rays  as  if  robbed  of  the  essence  of  its  gladness. 

Summer  in  the  country,  with  its  free,  wide  stretches  of 
purpling  moors  and  its  ecstatic  insight  into  the  sacred 
heart  of  things,  is  as  unlike  the  city  summer,  with  its  palpi 
tating  humanity  and  its  tainted  atmosphere,  as  life  is  unlike 
death.  The  one  is  the  world  as  God  planned  it ;  the  other 
as  man  has  made  it. 

Rachel  Gavin  fretted  and  pined  in  her  fifth -story  front. 
She  kept  close  during  the  long,  hot  days,  and  only  stole 
out,  wan  and  white,  in  the  twilight  for  a  breath  of  evening. 
In  imagination  she  saw  herself  roaming  over  tangled  fields 
and  in  shadowy  woodland  ways,  her  sketch-book  and  camp 
ing-stool  strapped  upon  her  arm.  But  the  city  fenced  her 
in,  and  her  straitened  means,  the  result  of  her  idleness, 
had  to  be  lengthened  by  stringent  economy.  She  had  not 
allowed  Michael  Akershem  to  give  her  so  much  as  a  paint 
brush,  and  the  stratagems  to  which  she  resorted  in  her 
financial  straits  were  many  and  varied.  Once  he  had 
brought  her  a  diamond  ring,  and  she  had  turned  upon  him 
like  a  flame.  "How  dare  you?"  she  had  cried,  passion 
ately.  "Do  you  wish  to  insult  me?  And  I  despise  dia 
monds!"  He  had  been  a  little  vexed  and  a  great  deal 
startled.  "  I  shall  be  beholden  to  no  man,"  she  had  said, 


THE   DESCENDANT  199 

"I  will  take  nothing  from  you,  do  you  hear?  Nothing! 
nothing !" 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  had  answered  ;  "  it  is  as  you  will." 

But  he  had  grown  dimly  conscious  of  a  lack  of  compre 
hension.  The  delicacy  of  Rachel's  decision  had  been  be 
yond  his  power  of  perception.  As  some  visions  are  unable 
to  grasp,  in  a  certain  color,  minute  variations  ot  shade,  so 
in  a  wide  survey  of  a  fact,  subtle  distinctions  were  lost 
upon  Michael  Akershem.  That  Rachel's  determination 
was  the  one  salvation  to  which  her  pride  adhered  he  did 
not  suspect,  and  he  would  have  failed  as  utterly  in  an  at 
tempt  to  distinguish  between  the  position  as  she  now  saw 
it  and  as  she  should  have  seen  it  had  she  arrayed  herself 
in  his  diamonds.  To  his  mother,  toiling  in  the  harvest- 
fields,  a  nicety  in  point  of  morals  could  not  have  been  more 
incomprehensible. 

But  Rachel  said,  "  I  have  accepted  your  convictions  for 
your  sake;  you  may  also  abide  by  mine."  And  he  was 
silenced. 

So  it  was  not  only  her  watch  that  was  pawned  this  sum 
mer  ;  a  pink  coral  necklace  of  her  great-grandmother's  lay 
unreclaimed  for  several  months  in  the  glass  case  of  one 
Israel  Meyerbeer-  and  her  guitar  passed  under  those  gold 
balls  never  to  return — at  least,  into  her  possession.  She 
suffered  silently,  however,  for  her  pride  set  a  seal  upon  her 
paling  lips.  She  packed  Madame  Laroque  and  her  belong 
ings  off  to  the  seaside,  watching  her  depart  with  smiling 
eyes;  and  when  the  old  flower-woman  at  the  corner  clapped 
her  withered  hands,  where  the  chilblains  were  barely  healed, 
and  declared  that  she  felt  the  summer  in  her  bones,  Rachel 
answered  with  her  ringing  laugh.  She  had  lost  her  watch 
and  her  great -grandmother's  necklace  and  her  peace  of 
mind,  but,  outwardly,  she  had  not  lost  her  frank  good- 
humor. 

Rachel  was  not  the  only  one  who  sighed  in  spirit,  tortur 
ing  her  imagination  with  visions  of  the  country-side.  The 
heat  had  penetrated  into  the  office  of  The  Iconoclast,  and 


200  THE   DESCENDANT 

the  printer's  devils  groaned  themselves  blue,  while  in  the 
composing-room  the  foreman  mopped  his  streaming  brow 
and  thundered  maledictions  after  the  recreant  editor. 

Michael  was  out  of  town.  For  the  first  time  in  his  nine 
years  of  journalistic  work  he  had  taken  a  vacation.  It  was 
Hedley  Semple  who  had  borne  him  off  for  a  fortnight's 
shooting  in  the  White  Mountains.  Mrs.  Semple  was  en 
sconced  with  the  children  and  several  friends  in  a  dilapi 
dated  farm-house  which  she  had  purchased  near  North 
Conway,  and  Akershem  had  been  drawn  into  the  party. 
Like  a  bit  of  untried  life  to  him  was  this  happy-go-lucky 
holiday,  spent  in  the  midst  of  the  mountains,  with  Hedley 
Semple's  enthusiastic  sportsmanship  and  the  frank  cordi 
ality  of  Mrs.  Semple's  large  and  pervasive  presence.  It 
was  a  pleasant  fortnight,  and  Michael  entered  into  the 
high-spirited  informality  with  a  boyish  zest,  grasping  at  the 
youth  which  he  had  missed.  For  the  first  time  he  was 
thrown  with  a  crowd  of  wholesome,  unaffected  young  people 
— girls  who  had  no  theories  and  no  missions  but  the  general 
theory  that  life  is  pleasant  enough  in  its  way,  and  the  mission 
to  endeavor  to  make  it  more  so.  It  was  refreshing  to  him ; 
it  robbed  him  of  half  his  cynicism,  and  knocked  the  life  out 
of  his  fundamental  maxim  of  social  depravity. 

When  he  returned  to  the  city  he  was  in  excellent  health 
and  spirits,  and  it  was  with  a  masterful  determination  that 
he  took  up  his  work  again — the  work  that  he  was  begin 
ning  to  hate. 

One  day  in  September,  as  he  worked  in  the  composing- 
room,  a  sudden  disgust  for  his  employment  swept  over  him, 
and,  rising,  he  walked  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Mr.  Akershem,"  said  the  foreman,  "  can  you  let  me 
have  those  three  sticks  of  copy  ?" 

Michael  sat  down  again,  taking  up  his  pen  with  an  air  of 
supreme  self-mastery. 

There  came  a  peal  from  the  telephone  bell,  and  he  looked 
up  impatiently.  "That  is  the  twentieth  time  in  the  last 
half-minute,"  he  said. 


THE    DESCENDANT  2«I 

The  telephone  boy  turned,  the  trumpet  still  at  his  ear. 
"  Cockril  &  Holmeson,"  he  said,  "  say  that  in  your  account 
of  the  strike  at  their  works  you  put  the  wages  the  strikers 
were  receiving  at  half  a  cent  too  low." 

He  looked  at  the  foreman  as  he  spoke,  but  Michael  ut 
tered  an  exclamation  and  returned  to  his  work. 

The  bell  rang  again.  The  boy  looked  up.  "  Mr.  Coggins 
says  we  made  him  say  that  Anarchism  was  not  an  unnatu 
ral  outcome  of — 

"  Pshaw  !     I  don't  care  what  he  said." 

Michael  sighed.  "  That  infernal  telephone  again  !"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Please,  sir" — the  telephone  boy  addressed  vacancy  and 
looked  dejected — "Miss  Caroline  Houston,  of  Thirty-first 
Street,  says  if  we  don't  retract  that  libel  concerning  her  in 
to-day's  issue  she'll — she'll — she  didn't  say  what  she'd  do, 
but  she's  coming  up  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  And  the  last  form  going  to  press,"  muttered  the  fore 
man,  helplessly,  while  Michael  cried  :  "  Tell  the  next  person 
to  go  to  the  devil !" 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Michael  tossed  a  cov 
ered  sheet  aside  and  took  up  a  blank.  A  reporter  looked  in 
at  the  door,  and,  seeing  the  state  of  affairs,  cautiously  looked 
out  again. 

The  telephone  rang  sharply,  imperatively,  with  a  finish 
ing  snap  at  the  end. 

"  Please,  sir." 

No  answer. 

"  Mr.  Akershem !" 

"Well?" 

"  A  gentleman  to  speak  to  you." 

"Tell  him  he  can't." 

The  words  were  shouted  through  the  telephone. 

"  He  says  he  must  speak  to  you,  sir." 

"  Tell  him  to  go  to  thunder." 

"  Please,  sir,  he  says  he  won't,  and  he  won't  budge  till  he 
speaks  to  you." 


202  THE    DESCENDANT 

In  a  rage  Michael  rose  and  strode  to  the  trumpet. 
"Who,  in  the  devil's  name,  are  you  ?"  he  shouted. 

"  Hello,  there  !"  came  Driscoll's  voice.  "  I've  something 
to  say  to  you." 

"  Can't  say  it.  I  wish  you'd  find  some  other  amusement. 
We're  going  to  press." 

He  gave  an  angry  jerk  and  left  the  telephone,  picking  up 
his  papers  from  the  table.  He  cast  a  sympathetic  look  at 
the  foreman,  who  held  his  head  in  one  hand  as  he  took 
down  notes  with  the  other.  His  tone  softened  wonderfully. 
The  better  side  of  his  nature  came  out  to  his  fellow-work 
man.  "  Come  into  my  room,  if  you  like,  Jenkins,"  he  said  ; 
"  I'll  give  you  this  in  twenty  minutes." 

And  he  passed  into  his  office. 

It  was  not  until  some  hours  later  that  he  recalled  Dris- 
coll  and  his  urgent  desire  for  an  interview,  and  shortly  after 
dinner  he  went  to  hunt  him  up. 

He  found  Driscoll  in  his  sitting-room,  waiting  patiently 
for  the  last  of  the  dinner  things  to  be  removed  from  the 
small  table. 

"  Hello!"  he  said.  "Draw  up  and  have  some  coffee  and 
a  cigar.  "You'll  find  that  box  of  Havanas  to  your  right 
first-rate."  Michael  sat  down  and  glanced  about  him. 
There  was  an  air  of  solid  comfort  about  Driscoll's  rooms 
which  never  failed  to  impress  him,  and  which  he  had  striven 
long  and  unavailingly  to  copy. 

"  How  comfortable  you  look  !"  remarked  Michael.  "  I 
wish  I  could  reach  your  degree  of  perfection  in  that  line." 

"  My  greatest  talent,"  returned  Driscoll,  with  complacent 
assurance.  "  I  tell  you,  there  is  more  real  science  in  mak 
ing  life  pleasant  than  in  tracing  its  origin." 

"  Was  it  Tertullian  who  said  that  to  be  happy  is  to  flaunt 
one's  self  in  the  face  of  the  Creator  ?  And  there  is  some 
truth  in  it.  I  am  never  particularly  cheerful  that  I  don't 
wonder  what  particular  misfortune  Providence  has  pre 
pared  next  in  order.  But  you  had  something  to  say  to  me." 

"And  I  have.     I  met  Splicer,  managing  editor  of  T/it 


THE   DESCENDANT  203 

Journal  of  Economics,  you  know.  Well,  his  health  has  failed, 
and  he  has  to  quit  work.  He  thought  he  might  get  me  into 
his  place.  It's  a  pretty  responsible  position,  you  see,  but  I 
told  him  political  economy  was  too  stagnant  for  my  taste, 
and  took  the  liberty  of  suggesting  yourself.  He  was  wild 
in  your  praise,  said  in  controversy  you  hadn't  your  match. 
Indeed,  he  magnified  your  ability  considerably.  You  know 
you  scored  him  once  on  the  sanitary  advantages  of  asb 
barrels,  which  accounts  for  it.  He  said  he  would  have  been 
glad  to  use  his  influence  for  you  had  you  been  less  unsound, 
and  I  ventured  to  hint  at  the  moderation  of  your  views." 

"It  is  not  so.  My  views  have  not  altered.  I  shall  not 
leave  The  Iconoclast.'1 

"  Oh,  well,  suit  yourself.  It's  a  pretty  good  chance,  how 
ever,  if  they  offer  it  to  you,  which  isn't  likely.  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  prepare  you — 

"  I  shouldn't  accept  it,"  returned  Michael,  insistently. 
But  as  he  walked  home,  after  leaving  Driscoll,  he  knew  that 
his  determination  had  been  but  momentary,  and  that  he 
was  already  beginning  to  waver  in  his  allegiance  to  The 
Iconoclast.  In  view  of  the  foreseen  contingency,  his  present 
work  became  more  distasteful.  It  was  uncongenial ;  not 
enough  so,  perhaps,  to  cause  him  to  throw  it  aside  with  no 
immediate  opening  in  view,  but  uncongenial  enough  to  war 
rant  his  exchanging  it  for  an  equally  successful  and  more 
respectable  position.  And  even  if  he  was  not  sufficiently 
quixotic  to  sacrifice  his  future  to  his  principles,  still  he  was 
sufficiently  ambitious  to  attempt,  were  it  possible,  to  gratify 
principle  and  ambition  at  a  single  stroke.  Yes ;  after  all, 
if  the  position  were  offered  he  would  consider  an  accept 
ance.  In  his  primitive  disregard  of  consequences  he  over 
looked  the  difficulties  of  his  reversion.  By  an  open  and 
barefaced  desertion  to  pass  from  his  own  party  to  the 
front  ranks  of  his  opponents  seemed,  in  its  way,  feasible 
enough.  That  his  party  might  resent  his  desertion  did  not 
occur  to  him. 

Cheerfully  sanguine  with  regard  to  the  opportunity  he  de- 


204  THE    DESCENDANT 

sired,  he  went  home  and  smoked  a  peaceful  pipe  in  the  sat 
isfaction  of  his  decision.  With  the  thought  of  his  changed 
position  had  awakened  the  thought  of  Anna  Allard.  For  a 
moment  he  allowed  himself  to  indulge  in  a  soothing  reve 
rie.  He  saw  her  beside  him,  bending  above  his  chair — the 
keeper  of  his  home  and  his  heart — her  serene  judgment  sus 
taining  him  through  life.  He  saw  her  grave  smile  illumined 
by  the  glory  of  her  hair ;  saw  her  bend  above  him  with  his 
image  in  her  eyes ;  saw  them  threading  together,  through 
youth  and  through  age,  into  eternity,  the  pathway  of  their 
lives.  He  thought  of  her  calmly,  with  not  one  quiver  of  his 
pulse.  He  desired  her  mentally.  She  personified  the  pro 
prieties  of  life — nothing  more.  From  his  wine  husks  he 
was  preparing  to  return  to  virtue,  and  virtue  wore  the  hair 
and  eyes  of  Anna  Allard. 

Then  he  put  the  thought  from  him  angrily,  and  fell  to 
thinking  of  Rachel. 

The  next  day,  going  to  his  office,  he  found  Kyle  awaiting 
him.  The  young  fanatic  had  grown  more  fanatical  of  late ; 
his  appearance  had  become  generally  unkempt,  and  there 
was  a  strangely  lurid  light  in  his  eyes. 

"  We  needed  copy,"  he  began  ;  "  and  as  you  left  none  I 
ventured  to  look  into  your  desk.  I  found  an  article  upon 
"  Tyrannicide  "  which  I  made  use  of.  It  suited  us  exactly." 

A  flame  kindled  in  Michael's  eyes. 

"  I  consider  it  officious,"  he  said.  "  The  thing  was  writ 
ten  two  years  ago  and  not  intended  for  publication.  I  shall 
have  it  recalled." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  returned  Kyle,  doggedly  ;  "  I  have  given 
it  to  Jenkins.  I  had  no  idea  you'd  cut  up  so.  I  shouldn't, 
in  your  place." 

One  of  his  rare  smiles  flashed  across  Michael's  face, 
giving  him  a  brilliantly  youthful  look. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  would,"  he  said,  frankly.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Kyle  ;  I  was  hasty." 

"And  there  is  something  else,"  continued  the  other. 
"  Paul  Stretnorf  was  here.  He  wishes  you  to  deliver  your 


THE    DESCENDANT  2o5 

lecture  upon  Russian  Nihilism  before  his  society.  I  told 
him  I  was  sure  he  might  count  upon  you.  It  is  important, 
you  know." 

Michael  started.  The  smile  passed  from  his  face,  leav 
ing  a  harassed  expression. 

"You  are  getting  me  into  a  peck  of  trouble,  Kyle.  I 
can't  do  it." 

"  You  must,"  persisted  Kyle,  passionately.  "  I  as  good 
as  gave  my  word  for  you.  The  demand  is  imperative. 
Why,  one  would  think  that  you  were —  He  checked  him 
self. 

"That  I  were  what?"  demanded  Michael. 

"  Nothing,  old  man  ;  but  we  must  have  the  lecture." 

"That  I  were  what?" 

Kyle  threw  back  his  head  and  fixed  his  lurid  gaze  upon 
him.  "  That  you  were  playing  trimmer !"  he  said,  in  a 
passionate  undertone. 

For  a  moment  Michael  looked  at  him,  growing  white  to 
the  lips.  He  realized  in  a  flash  that  his  part  was  less  easy 
than  he  had  believed  it,  that  what  he  called  principle  other 
men  would  call  perfidy,  and  that  because  of  that  principle 
or  perfidy  he  should  have  to  reckon  with  Kyle. 

"  Do  this  for  me,  Akershem,"  said  Kyle. 

Michael  hesitated,  his  gaze  abstracted,  the  vein  upon  his 
forehead  growing  livid  from  contraction,  his  eyelids  twitch 
ing  nervously.  Then  he  reached  forward  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  Kyle's  shoulder. 

"  You  believe  in  me,  Kyle  ?"  he  said,  and  there  was  a 
certain  wistfulness  in  his  voice. 

"Unto  death,"  responded  the  other. 

The  old  brilliant  smile  illumined  Akershem's  face  as  he 
spoke.  "  I  will  deliver  the  lecture,"  he  said. 


BOOK  IV 
REVERSION 

"  It  is  not  only  what  we  have  inherited  from  our  fathers  and  mothers 
that  walks  in  us.  It  is  all  sorts  of  dead  ideals  and  lifeless  old  beliefs. 
They  have  no  vitality,  but  they  cling  to  us  all  the  same,  and  we  can't 
get  rid  of  them.  .  .  .  And  then  we  are,  one  and  all,  so  pitifully  afraid 
of  the  light." — Ibsen.  f 


CHAPTER  I 

To  Rachel  Gavin  the  days  seemed  crowding  past  like 
gray  gnomes  glutted  with  presage  of  evil.  With  passion 
ate  incredulity  she  blinded  her  eyes,  feeling  in  the  darkness 
their  leering  presences  around  her.  Then  she  looked  and 
understood.  She  understood  that  the  way  upon  which  she 
had  walked  was  the  way  of  a  quicksand ;  that  the  things 
upon  which  she  had  looked  were  but  phantasmagoric  noth 
ings  ;  that  the  rock  upon  which  she  had  anchored  had  crum 
bled,  as  rocks  will.  There  remained  only  the  end. 

"  But  I  will  be  happy !"  cried  Rachel,  in  all  the  passion 
of  her  vehement  youth — "  I  will  be  happy  !"  And  she  had 
grown  beautiful  from  the  assumption  of  omnipotence,  as  if 
an  infusion  of  fresh  blood  stained  the  white  of  her  skin 
with  its  scarlet  flame.  Against  the  tenacity  of  her  will 
what  power  could  prevail?  In  her  eyes  happiness  had 
clothed  itself  in  the  image  of  Michael  Akershem.  As  he 
was  the  one  thing  needful  to  her  existence,  so  the  vigor  of 
the  desire  with  which  she  desired  him  redeemed  the  shrink 
ing  value  of  her  self-esteem.  The  buoyancy  of  her  belief 
in  him  had  exalted  her  above  conventions ;  but  despised 
conventions  avenge  themselves  as  inevitably  as  despised 
truths.  It  may  be  that  we  have  never  clearly  defined 
wherein  lies  the  difference  between  them. 

But  if  Rachel  suffered  now,  she  made  no  sign.  If  she 
missed  the  intensity  of  Michael's  first  affection,  she  missed 
it  silently.  If  the  carefully  acquired  courtesy  with  which 
he  treated  her  showed  pale  beside  the  flaming  memory  of 
that  turbulent  devotion,  who  was  the  wiser  ? 

Before  her  always,  sometimes  shrouded  by  unnatural  leth 
argy,  sometimes  veiled  by  a  natural  sanguineness,  loomed, 


210  THE    DESCENDANT 

in  a  terrible  obscurity,  the  dread  of  entering  upon  that  val 
ley  of  humiliation  which  is  found  at  the  end  of  the  way  of 
false  ideals.  She  resented  the  gentleness  with  which  Mi 
chael  treated  her;  she  resented  the  superlative  considerate- 
ness  of  Michael's  friends ,  and,  most  bitterly,  she  resented 
the  ill -concealed  compassion  of  her  former  companions. 
She  who  had  renounced  art  scoffed  at  them  that  they  re 
gretted  the  renunciation. 

When  Driscoll  came  one  day  and  lounged  about  her 
studio,  and  talked  to  her  in  that  deferential  manner  which 
she  had  observed  closely  of  late,  it  stung  her  like  the  sting 
ing  of  a  lash.  She  writhed  in  the  nervous  tension  of  her 
exasperation. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  treat  me  as  if  I  were  insane  or  in  a 
fever,"  she  remarked,  irritably. 

Driscoll's  mouth  dropped  in  astonishment.  He  walked 
to  the  window  and  stood  gnawing  his  mustache  abstracted 
ly.  His  back  expressed  an  amicable  forbearance,  his  face 
a  prophetic  gloom.  The  silence  was  oppressive.  There  was 
a  lack  of  sprightliness  about  the  passers-by  that  savored 
of  dejection.  He  shook  himself  resignedly  and  glanced  at 
Rachel  from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  after  which  he  beat  an 
almost  inaudible  tattoo  upon  the  window-pane  with  the  fin 
gers  of  one  hand.  He  quoted,  gravely  : 

"  '  I  never  saw  a  purple  cow, 

I  never  hope  to  see  one  ; 
But  this  I'll  tell  you,  anyhow, 
I'd  rather  see  than  be  one.'" 

With  an  energy  born  of  boredom  he  descended  to  over 
tures.  "Well,  he  remarked,  placidly  —  "well,  as  we  were 
saying,  the  wind  sits  in  the  east." 

"  If  you  have  anything  to  say,"  continued  Rachel,  with 
asperity,  "  please  say  it,  and  have  it  over.  I  hate  skirmish 
ing!" 

Driscoll's  mouth  dropped  a  degree  lower,  and  his  eyes 
grew  wider. 


THE   DESCENDANT  211 

"But  I  haven't  anything  to  say,"  he  protested,  "so  how 
can  I  say  it  ?"  Then  he  grew  hopeful.  "  I  can  quote  you  a 
line  or  two  if  it  will  answer,"  he  added. 

Rachel  was  not  to  be  mollified.  "  I  don't  know  the  rea 
son,"  she  said,  "  but  I  wish  you  didn't  always  look  as  if  you 
were  thinking  things." 

"  I  assure  you,"  retorted  Driscoll,  with  solemnity,  "  my 
mind  is  a  perfect  blank." 

Rachel  laughed  nervously,  her  glance  flashing  brilliantly 
through  the  dark  shadows  encircling  her  eyes.  She  inter 
laced  her  fingers  restlessly.  "  Perhaps  I  am  insane,"  she 
said;  "perhaps  that  is  why  you  are  so  civil."  And  she 
added,  with  the  recklessness  of  desperation,  "  I  see  no  other 
reason." 

He  regarded  her  contemplatively.  "  If  you  will  know," 
he  returned,  with  a  whimsical  disregard  of  her  earnestness, 
"  I  was  thinking  that  the  abolition  of  slavery  has  more  to 
answer  for  than  is  written  in  history."  Then  he  became 
suddenly  serious.  "  And  I  was  also  thinking,"  he  added, 
slowly,  "  that  not  one  of  us  is  worth  your  putting  out  your 
hand  to ;  but  it  is  like  you  to  do  it,  and  it  is  more  like  us 
to  want  you  to." 

Rachel  started,  and  the  scarlet  fled  from  her  face,  leaving 
it  like  marble.  Her  lips  trembled  ;  the  stars  were  lost  be 
hind  the  rain -clouds  in  her  eyes.  She  tore  at  the  em 
broidered  edge  of  her  handkerchief  nervously.  "I — I  am 
so  childish  !"  she  said,  and  burst  into  tears. 

He  watched  her  quietly,  pale  to  the  lips.  "  Don't !"  he 
said,  at  last,  stammering  awkwardly.  "Don't!"  Then  he 
spoke  quickly. 

"  Rachel,"  he  said,  "  if  it  had  only  been—  He  checked 
himself  ;  the  word  was  never  spoken.  It  was  the  restraint 
of  a  man  in  whom  passion  had  long  since  been  throttled. 
He  regarded  Rachel  as  he  regarded  the  world,  with  hon 
est  cynicism,  and  a  quizzical  acknowledgment  of  what  she, 
as  well  as  the  world,  might  have  been  to  him  and  was 
not. 


2t2  THE   DESCENDANT 

When  she  looked  at  him  he  was  conscious  only  of  her 
eyes — tragic  eyes,  haunted  by  tears. 

"  I  am  happy,"  she  said,  "  I  am  perfectly  happy."  There 
was  a  pitiful  refutation  in  her  voice.  "  It  is  only  my  work 
that  troubles  me,"  she  added,  and  looked  into  his  face  and 
saw  that  the  lie  was  as  naught.  "  It  is  my  work,"  she  re 
peated. 

"Of  course!"  assented  Driscoll,  heartily  —  "of  course! 
What  else  could  it  be  ?  As  a  friend  of  mine  used  to  remark, 
'  What  with  your  confounded  advantages  and  your  cursed 
attractiveness,  you  lack  only  common-sense !'  Not  that  I 
intentionally  cast  any  aspersions  upon  your  intellect,"  he 
added,  hastily,  "  for  you  will  take  it  up  again  and  I  shall  yet 
see  the  great  picture." 

"  I  don't  know."  Rachel  wavered  in  her  answer.  Then 
she  stood  up,  and  her  glance  met  his  as  he  leaned  above 
her.  A  wave  of  color  flooded  her  face.  At  the  thought 
of  Akershem  she  reddened  before  Akershem's  friend.  A 
flash  of  her  old  iridescence  illumined  her. 

"I  have  chosen  to  live  T  she  said. 

"As  we  have  all  chosen,"  he  answered,  simply.  "I  as 
well  as  you,  and  the  world  as  well  as  ourselves."  And  he 
took  the  hand  that  lay  in  her  lap  with  a  gesture  that  was 
half  consolatory.  "  And  like  most  choices,  we  regret  it,"  he 
said,  and  left  her. 

"  Do  you  ever  think,"  asked  Rachel  of  Akershem  that 
night,  "  how  different  life  would  have  been  for  us  both  had 
we  never  loved  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  truthfully,  "  I  have  thought." 

She  flashed  a  brilliant  glance  upon  his  face.  The  light 
ness  of  her  voice  drowned  the  pain  beneath.  "  How  bare 
it  would  have  been,  and  how  cold !"  she  said. 

"  How  brilliant  for  you  !" 

"But  how  cold!" 

"  Cold  !     With  Fame  ?" 

"  It  does  not  warm." 

He  grew  tender. 


THE   DESCENDANT  213 

"Does  this?"  He  put  his  arm  about  her,  and,  as  she 
lifted  her  head,  kissed  her  lips. 

She  warmed,  a  glow  overspread  her  face,  and  that  vivid, 
illusive  flame,  at  which  he  had  so  often  marvelled,  wrapped 
her  from  head  to  foot. 

She  laughed  softly  with  happiness.  "  So  you  aren't 
sorry  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Sorry  ?" 

"Not  sorry  that  I  failed?" 

"  You  did  not  try." 

The  old  haunting  jealousy  of  her  work  was  gone,  and  it 
pained  her. 

"  I  might  have  been  an  honor  to  you,"  she  said,  with 
rash  audacity,  "  to  leaven  the  lump  of  your  reputation." 

His  brow  wrinkled  and  grew  harassed ;  the  twitching  of 
his  lids  increased.  The  superficiality  of  her  manner  per 
plexed  him ;  he  knew  not  of  the  unguessed  depths  that  lay 
below.  He  knew  only  that  the  recklessness  of  speech  which 
had  at  first  attracted  now  repelled  him. 

"  My  reputation  is  not  so  black  as  you  are  pleased  to 
suppose,"  he  retorted. 

She  laughed  provokingly. 

"  You  contrast  it  with  mine,"  she  said,  "  which,  I  doubt 
not,  outrivals  trie  raven's  wing." 

"  Don't,  Rachel !"  he  pleaded.  "  One  must  consider 
such  things." 

"  As  ebon  reputations  ?"  she  inquired.  "  Mine  is  at  your 
service."  Then  she  made  him  a  mocking  courtesy.  "  Sir 
Respectability,  may  your  shadow  never  be  less !" 

She  stood  in  the  falling  firelight,  a  vivid,  elastic  figure, 
all  the  supple  curves  emphasized  by  the  strenuous  motion. 
From  her  straight,  white  brow  to  her  agile  feet  she  was  all 
energy  and  action.  A  scintillant  charm,  born  of  her  spirit 
and  the  genial  firelight,  sent  for  an  instant  the  swift  blood 
to  his  brain.  But  half  smiling  he  turned  from  her  to  the 
ruddy  coals,  which  seemed  inert  and  lifeless,  Th'ere  was 
nothing  vital  save  herself. 


214  THE    DESCENDANT 

"What  a  pity  that  one  becomes  stupid  as  soon  as  one 
becomes  respectable!"  she  continued.  "When  we  cease 
to  be  interesting  we  become  virtuous,  it  is  so  much  easier. 
That  is  why  very  plump  and  pudgy  people  are  always  so 
good."  She  was  grave  suddenly.  A  shaft  of  light  falling 
over  her  revealed  the  wistful  lines  of  her  lips.  "  Would 
you  have  loved  me  better  had  I  been  a  saint?"  she  asked. 

But  Michael  was  thinking  of  something  else  suggested 
by  her  words,  and  he  did  not  hear.  "  Ah  !  What  was 
that?"  he  asked,  absently. 

She  stared  at  him  a  moment,  a  sharp  terror  whitening 
her  face.  With  a  passionate  gesture  she  put  out  her  hand, 
blindly  warding  off  the  black  shadow  that  loomed  before 
her.  "  It — it  is  nothing,"  she  faltered.  "  I  was  only  jest 
ing — as  usual." 

Her  knees  trembled,  and,  yielding  to  a  passing  weakness, 
she  knelt  beside  him,  resting  her  head  upon  his  hand.  He 
was  kind,  but  kindness  was  mere  lack  of  passion ;  he  was 
gentle,  but  gentleness  was  foreign  to  his  nature.  In  the 
old  time  he  had  been  neither  gentle  nor  kind,  but  he  had 
loved  her.  Then  he  had  wounded  her  by  his  intensity ;  now 
he  lacerated  her  by  his  tenderness.  Then  the  wounds  had 
been  the  wounds  of  love  and  the  pain  pleasant ;  now  that 
love  was  dead,  tenderness  was  but  the  empty  shroud  and 
little  worth.  The  hand  beneath  her  cheek  did  not  quiver; 
she  missed  the  old  answering  throb  to  her  touch. 

With  a  sigh  she  rose  to  her  feet,  looking  down  upon  his 
abstracted  brow.  He  glanced  up  and  smiled  ;  then,  seeing 
that  she  was  pale,  he  drew  the  scarf  she  wore  more  closely 
about  her.  As  he  did  so  his  hand  brushed  her  throat,  and, 
as  it  passed,  it  left  a  crimson  flush.  Abandoning  reserve, 
she  stooped  quickly  and  kissed  the  hand  that  lay  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"Good-night!"  she  said. 

"  Good-night !"  he  echoed. 

She  reached  her  door  and  came  back,  She  was  trem 
bling  with  a  vague  foreboding. 


THE   DESCENDANT  415 

Quietly  he  drew  her  into  his  arms  as  one  draws  a  child, 
but  she  clung  to  him  with  a  passionate  cry. 

"Oh,  my  heart!   if  there  was  only  love  in  the  world! 
Only  love  in  all  the  wide,  wide  world  !" 

"  There  is  something  else  ?"  he  asked,  wonderingly. 
She  shook  her  head  as  she  turned  away.  "  Everything 
else,"  she  answered.  Then  a  yearning  seized  her  to  have 
him  lie  to  her,  and  she  lingered,  standing  with  upraised 
eyes  and  hanging  hands.  A  forlorn  hope  burned  in  her 
heart  that  it  might  all  be  a  dream,  and  that  he  would 
awaken  her  with  a  touch.  But  the  hope  was  forlorn,  and  it 
ended  forlornly.  He  looked  down  upon  her  passively. 

"Rachel,"  he  said.     She  thrilled  and  warmed  suddenly. 
"  Do  you  wish  anything  ?" 

She  grew  cold.  "  No,"  she  answered,  and  passed  out. 
At  that  moment  she  was  waging  a  revolt  against  Fate  as 
impotent  as  Michael  Akershem's.  A  nauseating  disgust 
for  mankind  seized  upon  her— a  disgust  for  petty  passions 
that  mouldered  to  dust,  and  for  pettier  aspirations  that  but 
tainted  the  heaven  to  which  they  aspired.  As  yet  her  por 
tion  of  gall  and  wormwood  was  bitter  to  her  lips.  She  had 
not  learned  that  when  one  has  drunk  deeply  one  becomes 
indifferent  to  the  gall  and  oblivious  to  the  wormwood.  It 
is  merely  a  matter  of  taste. 

The  next  morning  as  Michael  stooped  to  kiss  her  before 
going  to  his  office  she  drew  back. 

"  I  detest  forms  and  ceremonies,"  she  said. 
He  regarded  her  with  surprised  eyes,  his  brow  contracting. 
"  Is  it  only  a  form  ?"  he  asked. 

And  she  answered,  "What  else?"  But  in  her  heart  she 
was  longing  to  have  him  contradict  her  as  vehemently  as 
he  would  once  have  done,  forcing  back  her  words  with  a 
storm  of  protestations.  The  fact  that  he  submitted  to  her 
proved,  as  naught  else  proved,  the  dearth  of  emotion.  He 
smiled  at  her  as  he  went  out ;  and  because  he  smiled  she 
knew  that  the  words  caused  him  no  pain,  and  because  they 
caused  him  no  pain  she  hated  him  and  herself. 


2l6  THE    DESCENDANT 

But  that  afternoon,  when  her  natural  optimism  had  van 
quished  the  forebodings  of  the  morning,  and  she  had  lost 
the  memory  of  his  smile,  repentance  took  hold  of  her,  and 
she  looked  eagerly  forward  to  reconciliation. 

Lightly  she  determined  to  meet  him  as  he  left  the  office 
and  walk  homeward,  and  from  a  fleeting  sentiment  she 
dressed  herself  as  he  had  first  seen  her,  wearing  the  cap 
and  blouse  with  a  fresh  dignity  of  carriage.  The  reaction 
from  the  unusual  depression  sent  a  swift  light  to  her  face, 
and  the  dimples  beside  the  eyes  rippled  mirthfully.  In  one 
instant  she  had  warmed  from  the  passionate  pallor  of  the 
morning  to  an  iridescent  vivacity.  As  she  looked  at  her 
self  in  the  glass  she  caught  the  eyes  of  her  reflection,  and 
laughed  breathlessly  from  sheer  sympathy.  Long  after 
wards  she  remembered  the  freshness  of  the  face  that  had 
looked  back  at  her,  and  the  memory  was  as  keen  as  pain. 

She  opened  the  window  and  leaned  out,  testing  the 
warmth  of  her  clothing.  A  smack  of  frost  was  in  the  air, 
and  as  it  brushed  her  she  shivered  slightly  and  drew  back. 
A  light  coat  lay  upon  the  divan,  and  she  slipped  it  on, 
pausing  to  give  a  brisk  touch  to  the  wide  sleeves.  Then 
she  nodded  gayly  to  herself  and  went  out.  In  the  elevator 
she  drew  on  her  gloves,  carefully  fastening  the  six  buttons. 
She  was  humming  a  silly  little  French  song,  and  the  words, 
dancing  in  her  head,  made  her  wrinkle  her  brow  in  a  quick 
grimace : 

"Voyez  ce  beau  garson? 
C'est  1'amant  d'Amande." 

Buoyant  and  alert  she  was,  feeling  the  nervous  capability 
of  action  which  stirs  us  in  early  autumn,  and  which  usually 
ends  in  nothing. 

In  the  street,  as  she  passed  with  that  resolute  step  which 
characterized  her,  people  turned  to  look  after  her  with 
brightened  eyes.  A  lady  in  a  white  fur  cape  caught  sight 
of  her  approaching  figure,  reddened,  and  turned  aside ;  a 
shop-girl  carrying  a  heavy  bundle  stood  still  as  she  passed, 


THE    DESCENDANT  217 

and  was  torn  by  the  green  fangs  of  envy ;  a  dapper  young 
foreigner  put  up  his  glasses,  eyed  her  critically,  and  heaved 
a  relieved  sigh  that  the  eternal  American  girl  might  be 
numbered  among  the  things  that  abide  not. 

Rachel  paused  a  moment  before  a  florist's  window,  the 
odor  of  violets  floating  idly  about  her  thoughts.  Looking 
up,  she  smiled  in  answer  to  a  passing  nod.  It  was  one  of 
her  fellow-students,  a  woman  who  had  started  with  her  at 
the  Art  League.  She  remembered  the  rivalry  that  had  ex 
isted  between  them  and  the  victory  she  had  won. 

"  What  was  it  worth  ?"  she  asked.  "  She  has  outstripped 
me  now,  and  who  cares  ?"  And  she  felt  a  contemptuous 
pity  for  that  other  woman,  and  for  the  art  students,  and  for 
their  teachers,  and  for  all  who  painted  with  cold  brushes 
upon  cold  canvas. 

"  How  are  they  better  than  stones  ?"  she  asked.  "  They 
have  not  lived."  And  upon  the  woman  who  had  out 
stripped  her  in  the  race,  and  all  such,  she  smiled  unenvy- 
ingly — as  unenvyingly  as  that  other  woman  smiled  back 
upon  her. 

Optimism,  which  was  as  the  sunlight  of  her  energetic 
nature,  gilded  with  its  shifting  rays  the  clay  upon  which 
she  trod.  She  was  uplifted  by  the  surging  vitality  within 
her. 

Kyle,  meeting  her  upon  the  corner,  raised  his  hat  with 
an  enraptured  smile.  "  Summer  lingers  yet,"  he  remarked, 
with  a  touch  of  Irish  blarney. 

Rachel  blushed.  She  had  long  disliked  Kyle  and  his 
compliments-,  they  gave  her  an  unpleasant  sense  of  being 
considered  unfettered,  and  admiration,  from  all  save  Aker- 
shem,  was  mere  milk  and  water.  "  A  lingering  summer  is 
invariably  a  very  sickly,  frost-bitten  one,"  she  replied,  tart 
ly,  "  and  a  very  foolish  one." 

He  smiled  affably.  "You  will  meet  Akershem  on  the 
next  block,"  he  said  ;  "  I  passed  him."  And  he  hurried  on. 

Rachel  quickened  her  steps.  A  sharp  wind  blew  down 
the  street,  wrapping  her  skirts  around  her  and  blowing  a 


2l8  THE   DESCENDANT 

loose  lock  of  hair  across  her  face.  She  put  up  her  hand, 
impatiently  brushing  the  hair  aside,  and,  looking  up,  she 
saw  Michael  Akershem. 

With  an  impulsive  movement  she  went  towards  him,  when 
she  saw  that  he  was  looking  above  and  beyond  her,  and 
stopped.  A  tall  woman  passed  her  quickly — a  fresh,  strong 
woman,  with  a  coil  of  red  hair  showing  beneath  the  brim  of 
her  hat.  Across  Michael's  face  fell  a  light  that  was  as  a 
reflection  of  the  tall  woman's  hair.  He  took  her  hand  and 
stood  looking  into  her  eyes,  a  passionate  admiration  in  his 
gaze. 

Rachel  drew  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  crowd;  then 
she  passed  them  and  went  on  her  way. 

The  sun  had  gone  down.  It  had  grown  suddenly  cold, 
and  with  a  shiver  she  fastened  the  collar  of  her  coat.  She 
was  stunned  and  bruised,  and  her  limbs  were  heavy.  It  was 
not  pain  that  she  felt,  but  weariness.  Thinking  she  had 
walked  too  far,  she  glanced  up  at  a  lamp-post — Fourteenth 
Street.  She  wondered  what  had  brought  her  to  Fourteenth 
Street,  and,  remembering  that  she  needed  some  embroidery 
silks,  she  entered  a  shop,  taking  a  seat  beside  the  counter. 
There  was  some  difficulty  about  the  shades,  and  she  select 
ed  them  very  carefully,  recalling  the  shop-girl,  as  the  pack 
age  was  being  tied  up,  to  add  an  intermediate  skein.  At 
the  moment  she  thought  how  absurd  it  was  to  bother  about 
silks,  and  how  absurd  it  was  for  people  to  work  colored 
'flowers  upon  white  linen.  It  all  seemed  so  useless.  And 
when  she  was  forced  to  wait  for  her  change  she  wondered 
if  the  time  would  never  come  when  such  a  tedious  medium 
of  exchange  would  be  abolished.  All  the  little  accessories 
of  civilization  seemed  so  irksome. 

A  man  lost  his  hat  in  the  street,  and  it  was  caught  by  the 
wind  and  carried  along  the  sidewalk.  Rachel  laughed  un 
controllably.  What-  ridiculous  things  hats  were,  after  all ! 
and  why  did  every  one  upon  the  block  make  a  catch  at  it 
as  it  went  by  ?  What  useless  expenditure  of  energy  upon  a 
hat !  How  happy  that  man  must  be  to  care  whether  he  lost 


THE   DESCENDANT  219 

it  or  not !  And  she  felt  that  humanity,  with  its  hats  and  its 
loves  and  its  hates,  was  but  disgusting.  What  came  of  it 
in  the  end  ?  Or  did  it  go  on  forever,  with  its  ambitions  that 
came  to  nothing ;  its  lies,  that  deceived  not  even  men  them- 
selves  ? 

She  shivered  as  from  a  chill  wind.  "What  does  it  mat 
ter,"  she  asked,  wearily,  "  whether  I  saw  him  or  not?  One 
must  always  be  seeing  things,  and  it  was  not  much  to  see. 
He  looked  at  her.  Yes,  to  be  sure  he  looked  at  her.  What 
of  that  ?  People  usually  look  at  each  other  when  they  meet. 
Coward  !"  She  despised  herself  for  the  attempt  at  self- 
deception.  "  He  looked  at  her  as  he  no  longer  looks  at 
you.  He  loves  her,  but  he  once  loved  you.  His  love  is  ad 
justable.  How  convenient !"  she  laughed,  with  a  sudden 
recognition  of  the  humorous  side. 

Reaching  her  room,  she  took  off  her  coat,  laying  it  care 
fully  away.  After  drawing  off  her  gloves  she  smoothed  the 
fingers  before  placing  them  in  the  drawer.  "  What  useless 
things  gloves  are!"  she  thought.  "I  shall  stop  wearing  them. 
Why  do  people  make  themselves  uncomfortable  ?"  She 
brushed  her  hair  and  sat  down  near  the  fire.  A  heaviness, 
resembling  the  effect  of  an  anodyne,  stole  over  her.  She 
looked  upon  life  and  all  suffering  with  vague,  unsympathetic 
eyes.  She  watched  the  little  silver  bird  upon  the  clock  as  it 
swung  to  and  fro,  knowing  that  when  the  hour  had  reached 
seven,  Michael,  missing  her  at  dinner,  would  come  to  seek 
her.  With  a  shrinking  dread  she  listened  for  his  footsteps. 
A  crisis  had  come,  she  knew,  but  she  knew  not  whither  it 
would  lead  her,  and  just  now  she  was  hardly  interested  in 
the  result.  She  was  conscious  only  of  extreme  physical 
fatigue.  The  door  opened  and  Akershem  came  in. 

"Rachel!"  His  buoyant  tones  cut  her  like  steel.  She 
quivered  from  head  to  foot.  Her  head  rested  upon  the 
back  of  a  chair,  and  she  put  up  one  hand  to  shield  her  eyes 
from  the  firelight,  and  from  him.  "  Rachel,  are  you  asleep?" 

She  moved  slightly.     "Only  tired,"  she  answered. 

"  Shall  I  send  you  your  dinner  ?"    She  lowered  her  hand, 


220  THE    DESCENDANT 

observing  him  intently  as  he  stood  before  her.  She  noticed 
his  hair,  the  irregularity  of  his  features,  the  lines  about  his 
mouth,  and  the  bewildering  blinking  of  his  lids.  A  little 
nervous  laugh  broke  from  her.  Strange  that  she  had  never 
viewed  him  so  dispassionately  before. 

He  came  and  leaned  over  her,  resting  one  hand  lightly 
upon  her  hair.  As  if  stung  by  his  touch  she  drew  back. 
"  Dinner  ?"  she  repeated.  "  I  wish  none,  thank  you." 

She  rose  and  stood  before  him,  avoiding  the  contact  of 
his  arm.  Her  hair  had  fallen  in  a  heavy  wave  upon  her 
forehead,  and  she  put  it  back  feverishly. 

Michael  watched  her  with  anxious  intentness,  the  fire 
light  falling  over  him,  revealing  his  figure,  flashing  into  his 
brilliant  eyes. 

"  Is  it  that  you  regret  your  work,  Rachel  ?"  he  asked,  sud 
denly. 

Rachel  drew  back  and  looked  at  him,  measuring  his 
height  with  her  glance.  She  was  white  to  the  scarlet  line 
of  her  lips,  and  her  hands  trembled.  In  her  eyes  a  resolu 
tion  flickered  and  took  flame.  She  moved  a  step  forward ; 
her  fingers  stiffened  as  they  interlaced. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  Then  as  she  turned  from  him  the  tears 
started  to  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  leave  me  alone  !"  she  cried. 
"  Leave  me  alone  !" 

Without  a  word  he  left  her ;  and  passing  into  the  adjoin 
ing  room,  she  threw  herself  heavily  upon  the  bed. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  the  night  she  awoke  in  sudden  terror.  Across  the 
city  a  clock  struck  the  hour,  its  solemn  tones  tolling  knell- 
like  upon  her  excited  mood — one  !  two  !  Something  tangi 
ble  about  the  darkness  seemed  to  bear  down  upon  her  with 
stifling  force.  She  remembered  her  old  childish  idea  that 
it  was  a  great  black  monster  with  fiery  eyes,  and  the  im 
pression  was  so  vivid  that  she  half  reached  out,  hoping  to 
find  that  she  was  in  the  little  trundle-bed  at  home,  and 
that  from  out  the  darkness  her  mother's  hand  would  be 
stretched  to  soothe  her  fear.  For  a  moment  she  lay  breath 
less  and  still,  her  thoughts  taking  no  definite  shape.  Then 
she  strained  her  ears,  hoping  to  hear  the  crowing  of  the 
genial  rooster  in  the  barn -yard,  and  to  learn  that  day  was 
breaking  in  the  east — only  the  distant  rumble  of  the  ele 
vated  road,  and  faint,  uneasy  sounds  that  seemed  but  the 
echoes  of  the  noise  of  departed  day.  She  sat  up  and 
reached  for  the  candle,  striking  a  match  with  nervous  fin 
gers.  For  an  instant  the  pale-blue  flame  shot  up,  illumin 
ing  all  the  familiar  objects  that  seemed  in  the  half-light 
invested  with  grim  irony,  and  dying  as  quickly  down.  She 
struck  a  fresh  one,  holding  her  palm  beside  the  candle  to 
intercept  the  draught.  It  ignited,  and,  placing  it  on  a  chair, 
she  crouched  shivering  upon  the  bed  and  looked  around 
her.  The  dim  outlines  of  her  figure,  reflected  in  the  gray 
length  of  the  mirror,  impressed  her  with  the  shock  of  a  vis 
ible  presence.  In  her  white  nightgown,  with  the  pallor  of 
her  face  and  the  dark  of  her  heavy  hair,  there  was  a  certain 
solemnity  about  her.  She  looked  tall  and  strange  and 
sharply  indistinct,  as  a  shadow  that  is  thrown  upon  a  sheet 
of  white.  In  the  silence  and  dim  light  she  sat  silently, 


222  THE    DESCENDANT 

She  regarded  the  room  and  all  the  commonplace  objects 
of  every  day  with  curious  eyes,  as  if  seeing  them  clearly  for 
the  first  time.  The  long  shadows  cast  by  the  uncertain 
candle  lent  a  weirdness  to  the  apartment,  the  furniture,  and 
even  to  the  dusk  beyond  the  window.  She  looked  at  the 
wardrobe,  and  wondered  why  it  seemed  to  move  and  topple 
towards  her.  She  put  up  her  hand,  instinctively  warding  it 
off,  and,  realizing  her  hysteria,  laughed  nervously.  Upon  a 
chair  lay  her  clothes,  thrown  carelessly  where  she  had  slipped 
out  of  them,  and  she  wondered  if  they  were  really  insensible 
to  pain — if  there  were  any  objects  in  this  vast  universe  too 
inanimate  to  suffer.  She  followed  with  her  eyes  the  length 
of  a  stocking  and  the  space  of  a  slender  shoe.  How  light 
ly  those  shoes  had  trodden  the  street  below  only  yesterday, 
and  how  heavily  had  they  returned !  Then  she  looked  at 
the  pictures  on  the  wall  —  at  Murillo's  "  Magdalen,"  so 
plump  and  passionless;  at  a  worn  engraving  of  Bellini's 
"Gethsemane";  at  the  "Martyrdom  of  St.  Sebastian." 
She  smiled,  thinking  that  those  hands  had  striven  to  render 
agony  and  had  failed.  What  a  mere  outline  was  the  pas 
sion  in  the  garden  !  how  languishing  the  pose  of  Murillo's 
holy  sinner  ! 

Upon  the  bureau  stood  a  photograph  of  Michael  Aker- 
shem,  and  from  behind  it  her  own  face  looked  back  at  her 
from  the  gloomy  mirror,  as  the  ghost  of  the  past  looks  over 
the  brow  of  the  present. 

In  one  outcry  her  agony  broke  forth  :  "  O  God  1" 

She  ran  her  hands  through  her  hair,  pressing  them  into 
her  temples  with  almost  brutal  violence.  After  that  one 
outcry  she  was  silent,  but  the  passion  seething  within  her 
seemed  to  rend  her  chest  asunder.  The  expression  of  her 
face  but  for  its  quiet  would  have  been  despair. 

"Let  me  think,"  she  said,  suddenly,  her  voice  sounding 
so  distinct  in  the  obscurity  that  she  stopped  half  startled. 
"I  can't  think.  How  annoying  it  is !  1  know  he  loved 
me.  Yes.  And  he  loves  me  no  longer.  I  know  it.  But 
what  does  it  mean  to  know  a  thing?  And  how  do  I  know 


THE   DESCENDANT  223 

it  ?  And  what  is  it,  anyway,  that  I  should  know  ?  It  has 
been,  and  it  is  over.  All  things  are  over  sooner  or  later, 
and  what  matter  is  a  month,  a  year,  or  ten  years  ?  In  the 
end  he  would  have  gone  from  me.  It  is  only  that  it  has 
happened  this  year  instead  of  the  next  or  the  year  after." 

And  then  she  saw  Michael  Akershem  as  he  had  first 
appeared  to  her — impassioned,  energetic.  She  saw  his  eyes 
burning  with  her  image.  She  felt  the  touch  of  his  hand, 
the  pressure  of  his  arm.  With  the  gesture  of  a  wounded 
animal  she  cowered  downward,  beating  the  bedclothes  with 
impotent  hands.  Her  dry  eyes  stared  out  into  the  flicker 
ing  gloom. 

"  I  hate  myself !  Oh,  how  I  could  curse  and  spit  upon 
myself !  What  am  I  —  I,  a  target  for  the  stones  of  the 
world — what  am  I  that  I  should  chain  him  to  me  ?" 

A  shadow  upon  the  wall,  cast  by  a  piece  of  bric-a-brac, 
took  the  shape  of  the  devil's  face,  mocking  her  with  its  gro- 
tesqueness.  She  stared  at  it  with  a  dull  fascination,  watch-, 
ing  it  as  it  danced  upon  the  papering,  leering  now  this  way, 
now  that,  but  always  seeming  to  draw  a  little  nearer.  A 
nervous  fear  shook  her  like  an  ague.  She  started  up  with 
a  desire  for  human  companionship.  With  the  candle  in  her 
hand  she  went  to  the  door,  her  white  gown  trailing  behind 
her  like  an  altar-cloth.  But  with  her  hand  upon  the  knob 
she  paused,  and,  turning,  walked  to  the  window,  leaning  out 
into  the  chill  night,  and  straining  her  ears  to  catch  some 
familiar  sound.  A  policeman  strolled  by  upon  his  beat, 
and  his  resonant  tramp  acted  soothingly  upon  her  over 
wrought  nerves.  She  laid  her  head  upon  the  sill,  watching 
his  figure  as  it  passed,  like  a  gigantic  shadow,  beneath  a 
distant  light.  The  cold  air  blew  over  her,  piercing  her  thin 
gown.  It  was  as  ice  upon  the  brow  of  one  in  fever.  Again 
the  clock  struck  —  one!  two!  one!  two!  She  lay  there 
until  the  darkness  broke  and  a  thin  line  of  gray  showed  in 
the  east.  With  the  shimmer  of  dawn  she  blew  out  the 
candle,  and,  drawing  on  her  dressing-gown,  passed  into  her 
studio.  The  chill  light  penetrated  the  chinks  of  the  shut- 


224  THE    DESCENDANT 

ters,  revealing  as  through  a  crystal  lens  the  familiar  rooms 
and  all  the  bare  angularities  that  are  softened  by  the  chas 
tened  glow  of  the  day.  Upon  the  floor  lay  the  small  ob 
jects  that  she  had  thrown  aside  the  day  before — a  broken 
scraper,  a  glass  bottle  labelled  "  Pure  Turpentine,"  and  an 
emptied  and  distorted  tube  with  a  trace  of  rose  madder 
still  adhering  to  the  mouth.  In  the  corner  stood  her  great 
picture,  the  dust  settling  upon  the  curtain  which  hung  be 
fore  it. 

She  looked  about  her  with  that  sickening  tightening  of 
the  heart  with  which  we  view  in  the  gray  dawn  the  scene 
where  the  day  before  we  caught  at  happiness  and  missed. 

In  the  grate  a  heap  of  ashes  lay  cold  and  lifeless.  Upon 
the  hearth  the  tongs  had  fallen.  She  remembered  that  he 
had  dropped  them  as  he  stirred  the  coals  the  evening  be 
fore.  A  white  smile  at  the  needless  ironies  of  life  crossed 
her  lips.  How  like  that  burned-out  grate  to  her  own  burned- 
out  heart !  The  chair  in  which  she  had  sat,  the  coat  she 
had  laid  aside,  the  rug  upon  which  he  had  stood — these 
tortured  her  with  a  terrible  sense  of  familiarity.  Upon  the 
table  lay  the  stump  of  a  cigar  and  a  tiny  pile  of  ashes  in  a 
silver  holder.  She  pushed  them  from  her  with  a  hasty 
gesture.  She  hated  them  all — these  trivial  objects  so  red 
olent  of  associations. 

Then  she  looked  at  the  silver  clock,  and  the  little  bird 
upon  it  seemed  to  wink  at  her  with  its  jewelled  eyes.  She 
laughed  nervously.  What  an  odd  little  bird  it  was !  and 
why  did  the  feathers  in  its  tail  all  point  in  different  ways  ? 
Her  laugh  frightened  her,  and  she  glanced  fearfully  around 
at  the  mirror.  Above  the  gray  dressing-gown  her  face 
showed  white  and  haggard.  Beneath  her  eyes  heavy  shad 
ows  lay. 

"  Soon  there  will  be  nothing  left  of  me,"  she  said — 
"  nothing  but  a  laugh." 

Some  hours  later,  when  Michael  came  up  from  breakfast 
to  inquire  for  her,  she  did  not  see  him. 


THE   DESCENDANT  22$ 

"  I  have  a  headache,"  she  said,  from  behind  the  locked 
door.  "  Come  up  early.  There  is  a  matter  for  us  to  dis 
cuss."  And  as  his  footsteps  descended  the  passage  she 
lay  'idly  listening  to  them  and  counting  the  dragon's  eyes 
upon  the  ceiling.  Her  breakfast  was  on  a  tray  beside  her, 
and  she  rose  presently  and  drank  her  tea  and  ate  her  roll 
with  a  stolid  determination. 

All  the  little  monotonies  of  her  toilet,  she  felt,  were  irk 
some.  The  bath  was  fatiguing,  and  she  was  forced  to 
nerve  herself  to  the  effort  of  fastening  her  clothes  and  ar 
ranging  her  tangled  hair.  It  seemed  to  her  absurd  that 
she  should  dress  herself  and  go  about  her  ordinary  tasks 
with  unchanged  demeanor.  She  spoke  to  the  maid  who 
came  to  dust  her  room  as  pleasantly  as  was  her  wont ;  she 
sorted  the  paints  and  brushes  systematically ;  and  when, 
later  in  the  day,  she  went  for  a  walk  she  was  surprised  to 
feel  invigorated  by  the  bracing  air. 

It  was  not  until  the  afternoon  that  a  nervous  reaction 
sent  a  flush  of  excitement  to  her  cheeks.  Her  brilliancy 
returned  to  her,  and  when  Michael  Akershem  came  in  he 
found  her  awaiting  him  with  shining  eyes  and  scarlet  lips. 
He  did  not  see  the  quiver  of  her  muscles  or  know  that  she 
was  divided  between  a  desire  to  rush  into  his  arms  and  a 
hatred  of  his  presence. 

She  stood  beside  the  fender,  the  light  from  the  grate  ris 
ing  behind  her  and  throwing  her  white-gowned  figure  into 
high-relief.  Her  hands  were  clasped  before  her,  and  her 
nails  were  pressed  deeply  into  her  sensitive  palms.  Be 
side  her  stood  a  tea-table,  the  lingering  daylight  sparkling 
prettily  over  its  embroidered  cover  and  over  the  dainty, 
gilt-edged  cups.  A  bowl  of  nasturtiums  curled  towards 
her  on  their  slender  stems  like  tongues  of  flame. 

Coming  from  the  cold  without,  Michael  was  exhilarated 
by  the  genial  glow,  and  in  harmony  with  the  radiant  in 
terior  was  the  radiant  figure  of  Rachel  as  she  neared  him 
with  burning  lips  and  eyes.  He  would  have  kissed  her, 
but  she  drew  gently  away. 


226  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  How  cold  you  are !"  she  said,  speaking  rapidly  from  a 
feverish  dread  of  silence — "how  very  cold!  Sit  down. 
No,  not  there.  You  never  liked  that  chair,  you  know. 
This  one  suits  you.  So  you  came  early,  as  I  said.  Yes, 
there  is  something  to  be  discussed.  Why  is  it  that  the 
word  discussion  always  reminds  me  of  a  dissecting-room? 
I  feel  that  when  a  person  is  discussed  he  is  morally  dis 
sected  and  pulled  to  pieces.  But  we  sha'n't  dissect  any 
one  but  ourselves,  shall  we  ?" 

She  sat  down  near  him,  keeping  upon  the  edge  of  her 
chair  and  turning  her  profile  towards  him. 

"  Why  dissect  ourselves  ?"  he  asked.  "  Unpleasant  com 
plications  are  likely  to  ensue." 

"  Oh,  but  it  is  necessary,"  she  answered,  quickly.  "  You 
see,  we  have  been  living,  as  it  were,  under  false  pretences. 
We  have  pretended  to  be  happy  when  we  were  not  happy 
at  all.  You  pretended  to  me,  and  I  pretended  to  you.  It 
has  been  just  like  a  game  we  used  to  play  when  we  were 
children,  which  we  called  '  making  believe,'  and  in  which  we 
made  believe  we  were  something  that  we  were  not.  Now  we 
must  stop  making  believe.  I  don't  feel  like  playing  any 
longer ;  I  want  to  return  to  my  real  self.  So  here  I  am." 

He  regarded  her  fixedly,  his  eyes  narrowing  until  his 
gaze  seemed  as  a  stream  of  light  thrown  from  a  lantern 
upon  her  excited  face. 

"  So  here  you  are,"  he  repeated. 

"  So  here  I  am."  She  moved  restlessly  on  the  edge  of 
her  chair.  "  And  this  means  that  it  is  all  over — all  over, 
do  you  hear  ?  You  go  back  to  your  work  and  I  go  back  to 
mine ;  and  we  will  both  look  upon  this  as  a  little  game  of 
'make-believe.'" 

"  But  it  was  earnest,"  he  said. 

She  started  at  his  unconscious  use  of  the  past  tense,  and 
walked  hastily  to  the  window ;  then  she  came  back,  and 
played  with  the  cups  upon  the  tea-table.  She  raised  a 
lump  of  sugar  in  the  tongs,  but  it  dropped  before  it  reached 
the  cup.  She  smiled  as  he  looked  at  her. 


THE    DESCENDANT  12? 

"Is  there  any  superstition  about  sugar?"  she  asked. 
"  Only  that  foolish  one  about  '  Many  a  slip,'  I  suppose." 

She  poured  the  tea  very  carefully,  and  handed  the  cup  to 
him.  As  he  took  it  from  her  he  noticed  that  her  hands 
were  trembling. 

"  Rachel,"  he  protested—"  Rachel,  I  can't  understand." 

She  filled  a  cup  for  herself.  Her  throat  was  parched, 
and  she  swallowed  a  little  before  replying. 

"Not  understand  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  that  lightness  of 
manner  which  had  once  been  natural.  "  Well,  be  quiet,  and 
let  me  explain.  I  was  always  good  at  explaining  things,  you 
know.  It  means  just  this  :  you  and  I  have  been  very  good 
friends,  but  friendship  isn't  the  only  thing  in  the  world,  and 
we  have  found  it  out ;  and  it  means — well,  you  understand." 
In  a  moment  she  went  on  again  :  "  Perhaps,  after  a  long 
time,  when  we  are  very,  very  old  people,  and  have  gotten  as 
much  fame  as  our  hands  can  hold,  we  will  sit  down  again 
and  talk  it  quietly  over.  By  that  time  it  will  all  seem  very 
amusing,"  she  added.  She  lifted  the  cup  to  her  lips  again. 

He  surveyed  her  in  baffled  silence;  then,  rising,  he  stood 
before  her. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  he  asked,  slowly,  "  that  you  have  ceased 
to  love  me  ?" 

With  a  soothing  gesture  she  put  her  hand  to  her  throat, 
it  felt  so  strained  and  drawn. 

"So  many  things  are  possible,"  she  replied,  "that  one 
can't  be  sure  of  anything." 

He  felt  vaguely  aggrieved.  Then  he  looked  into  his  own 
heart  and  his  faith  in  impossibilities  weakened.  If  his  love 
could  burn  out,  why  not  Rachel's.  And  yet^ 

"  I  do  not  believe  it !"  he  cried,  hotly. 

She  flushed  angrily.  "  You  were  always  sceptical,"  she 
rejoined.  She  looked  at  him  firmly.  The  struggle  had 
come,  and  she  knew  it ;  and  with  the  knowledge  a  nervous 
excitement  quickened  her  to  combat.  The  thought  that  he 
would  yield  easily  maddened  her ;  but  she  was  not  a  cow 
ard,  and  she  faced  that  as  she  had  faced  the  rest. 


228  THE 

With  vivid  intensity  his  figure,  as  he  stood  before  her, 
was  photographed  upon  her  brain.  In  all  the  years  that 
came  it  was  Michael  Akershem  as  he  looked  that  moment 
that  she  remembered.  The  maze  of  hair,  the  cut  of  his 
coat,  the  ink-stains  upon  his  finger-tips,  the  very  pattern  of 
his  cravat — these  dwelt  in  her  mind  then  and  forever  after. 
He  himself  was  half  angry,  half  humbled. 

As  Rachel  stood  there,  wrapped,  as  in  a  mantle,  in  her 
indomitable  pride,  he  realized,  as  he  had  never  realized  be 
fore,  the  wealth  of  her  nature,  the  immensity  of  the  love 
with  which  she  had  loved  him.  And  then  a  tide  of  relief 
swelled  within  him  that  the  crisis  was  to  be  faced  and  the 
suspense  at  an  end. 

Stung  by  a  quick  suspicion,  he  spoke  harshly.  "Rachel," 
he  said,  "is  there  some  one  else?" 

A  wave  of  resentment  swept  over  her,  staining  her  cheek ; 
a  wrathful  light  leaped  to  her  eyes.  She  grew  icy.  "  Why 
not?"  she  demanded,  insolently.  And  he,  remembering 
Anna  Allard,  was  silent. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  without  replying.  "  At  least 
we  are  friends,"  he  said. 

Her  hand  closed  upon  his  with  nervous  tension.  "Not 
yet,"  she  answered  ;  "after  a  time— perhaps." 

She  swayed  and  leaned  lightly  against  him,  her  head  rest 
ing  against  his  arm.  Then  by  an  effort  she  held  herself 
erect,  and,  lifting  her  head,  kissed  him  once.  "  It  was  a 
very  nice  game,"  she  said. 

In  a  sudden  forgetfulness  of  all  save  her  and  what  she 
had  been  to  him,  he  held  her  from  him,  trying  to  read  de 
nial  in  her  eyes. 

"  Little  comrade,"  he  said,  "  can't  we  throw  up  the  game? 
Can't  we  settle  down  into  commonplaces  and  matrimony  at 
last  ?" 

The  laugh  that  broke  from  her  was  a  reaction  from  her 
passionate  self-control,  but  he  did  not  know  it. 

"What  a  prosaic  ending  to  our  theories!"  she  said. 
"  No  -3  it  is  better  so." 


THE    DESCENDANT  229 

He  turned  from  her  towards  the  door.  On  his  way  out 
he  upset  her  work-table,  scattering  a  pile  of  colored  silks 
upon  the  carpet. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  bluntly,  stooping  to  gather 
them  up. 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself,"  she  answered,  looking  up.  "  It 
is  no  matter." 

And  he  went  out. 

Rachel  stood  beside  the  table  as  he  had  left  her.  She 
leaned  over  the  bowl  of  nasturtiums,  crushing  a  flaming 
blossom  between  her  fingers ;  its  blood  stained  her  hand. 
"  It  would  all  be  so  ridiculous,"  she  said,  "  if  one  could  only 
see  the  humorous  side." 

Her  glance  fell  upon  the  shrouded  canvas,  and  she  went 
over  to  it,  drawing  the  curtain  hurriedly  aside.  Taking 
down  her  palette,  she  emptied  a  tube  of  yellow  ochre  upon 
it,  squeezing  it  out  with  lavish  haste,  after  which  she  stirred 
it  absently  with  a  camel's-hair  brush. 

"  There  is  always  something  left,"  she  said,  and,  looking 
up,  found  that  the  twilight  had  crept  in  upon  her.  She  laid 
her  palette  aside. 

"  It  is  too  dark  to  work,"  she  said,  "  so  it  won't  matter  if 
I  cry  a  little."  And  she  laid  her  head  upon  her  arm  and 
wept. 


CHAPTER   III 

MICHAEL  walked  along  the  corridor,  and  pressed  the 
electric  button  summoning  the  elevator.  As  he  stood  wait 
ing  he  straightened  himself  with  the  gesture  of  one  relieved 
of  a  grievous  weight.  "  So  that  is  over,"  he  said. 

The  conviction  of  its  finality  was  impressed  so  forcibly 
upon  his  brain  that,  when  he  reached  the  ground-floor,  he 
was  surprised  to  find  himself  wondering  what  course  he 
should  pursue  in  view  of  a  possible  reconciliation.  The 
climax  having  been  precipitated  by  Rachel,  she,  he  told 
himself,  was  alone  responsible.  But  with  the  sudden  re 
moval  of  suspense,  and  the  passing  of  the  jubilant  revulsion 
succeeding  it,  a  gnawing  doubt  of  his  own  sincerity  assailed 
him. 

He  left  the  house,  walking  along  Eighteenth  Street,  and 
turning  into  Broadway  at  the  corner. 

"  So  that  is  over,"  he  repeated,  in  a  vehement  endeavor 
to  reassure  himself. 

Then  he  threw  back  his  head  with  the  impatience  of  a 
horse  that  resents  the  curb. 

"  Hang  it  all !"  he  exclaimed.     "  What  is  the  matter  with 

O 

me?" 

A  moment  before  he  would  have  sworn  that  freedom  was 
the  one  thing  needful ;  and  perhaps  it  was,  but  he  felt  no 
freer  to-day  than  he  had  felt  yesterday  or  the  day  before. 
The  fact  that  Rachel  had  annulled  the  unspoken  contract 
was  insufficient.  A  slow  consciousness  that  he,  not  Rachel, 
was  responsible  for  the  annulment  oppressed  him  with  stub 
born  insistence.  Vainly  he  sought  to  intimidate  the  con 
sciousness  by  undue  influence  ;  he  might  obscure  it  by  san 
guine  assurances,  but  when  the  assurances  were  hushed  he 


THE   DESCENDANT  23! 

knew  that  it  would  rise  and  confront  him.  He  admitted 
dimly  that  six  months  ago  such  words  from  Rachel  would 
have  had  no  power  to  release  herself  or  him  from  their  vol 
untary  obligations.  He  was  aware,  although  he  refused  to 
acknowledge  it,  that  for  him  to  retrace  his  steps  and  to  ac 
cuse  Rachel  of  the  treachery  of  which  he  was  unwilling  to 
accuse  himself  would  be  to  virtually  reseal  their  broken 
faith.  And  yet — 

"  It  is  her  choice."  And  the  rising  conviction  that  he 
lied  irritated  him  unbearably. 

In  his  uncertainty  he  walked  the  streets  until  midnight, 
when  he  returned  to  his  rooms.  As  he  opened  his  door  he 
spoke.  "It  is  over,"  he  said.  As  he  struck  a  light  he 
spoke  again.  "  I  will  see  her  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

That  a  personal  interview  indicated  a  truce  to  hostilities 
he  admitted,  and  with  a  sinking  confidence  in  his  own  good 
faith  he  shrank  from  clinching  matters  so  irrevocably — 
upon  the  side  of  Rachel.  With  the  cowardliness  which 
he  would  have  derided  in  another,  he  compromised.  Stand 
ing  beside  the  mantel,  he  drew  out  his  note-book,  and,  tear 
ing  a  leaf  from  it,  scribbled  a  line  : 

"You  cannot  mean  it ;  I  refuse  to  consider  this  final.  If 
you  loved  me,  you  would  not  let  me  go." 

This  he  kept  by  him  until  morning,  when,  before  going 
to  his  breakfast,  he  sent  it  to  Rachel's  room.  In  a  mo 
ment  the  messenger  returned.  There  was  no  answer,  he 
said. 

Vehemently  Michael  demanded  whom  he  had  seen,  and, 
when  he  had  learned  that  it  had  been  Rachel  herself,  was 
divided  between  anger  and  astonishment. 

In  a  fit  of  anger,  which  was  increased  by  a  sleepless 
night,  he  went  to  his  office  without  breakfasting.  The  dis 
order  upon  his  desk  annoyed  him,  and  he  spoke  sharply  to 
a  reviewer  who  inquired  for  a  missing  volume.  He  found 
himself  unable  to  concentrate  his  attention,  and  the  task  of 
pruning  one  of  Kyle's  leaders  was  so  irksome  that  he  gave 
it  up  in  disgust.  The  editing  of  a  paper  he  felt  to  be  a 


2^2  THE   DESCENDANT 

species  of  refined  damnation.  Suddenly  he  rose,  pushing 
all  the  papers  upon  his  desk  into  a  confused  jumble. 

"  Kyle,"  he  called,  "  I've  given  out !  Take  charge  of  this 
confounded  stuff,  will  you  ?" 

Kyle  looked  up  sympathetically.  "  Overwork,  Aker- 
shem,"  he  said.  "  I  should  advise  your  seeking  medical 
advice." 

"Advice  is  the  kind  of  rot  that  comes  unsought,"  re 
turned  Akershem,  crossly.  "  I  want  quiet.  I'll  go  off 
somewhere." 

Kyle  laughed  softly.  "  The  city  editor's  lot  is  not  an 
easy  one,"  he  remarked.  But  Michael  had  left  the  office. 

The  possibility  of  encountering  Rachel  if  he  returned  to 
his  apartments  occurred  to  him,  and  he  went  to  a  restaurant 
for  dinner.  Then,  with  a  feeling  that  New  York  and  the 
tumult  of  New  York  maddened  him,  he  took  the  ferry,  buy 
ing  a  ticket  in  Jersey  City  and  boarding  the  first  train  he 
came  upon.  Action  of  any  kind  was  better  than  inertia, 
and  to  be  rushing  to  hell  preferable  to  standing  still. 

He  settled  himself,  throwing  his  overcoat  upon  the  seat 
facing  him,  and  surveying  with  an  angry  glance  his  fellow- 
passengers.  Before  the  train  pulled  out  from  the  station  he 
was  thrown  in  a  nervous  rage  by  the  sounds  without — by 
the  hurry  in  the  station-yard,  by  the  equanimity  of  the  por 
ters,  and  by  the  steam  from  an  engine  upon  the  track  be 
side  him.  A  frail  lady  carrying  a  milliner's  box  took  the 
section  in  front  of  him,  and  he  felt  an  instantaneous  dislike 
for  her,  for  the  bundles  beside  her,  and  for  the  crimps  of 
her  hair.  A  stout  gentleman,  entering  from  the  rear,  paused 
beside  him  to  remove  a  silk  hat  and  don  a  travelling-cap, 
and  he  disliked  the  stout  gentleman  even  more  than  he  had 
disliked  the  frail  lady.  At  the  end  of  the  car  a  baby  cried, 
and  he  felt  that  he  disliked  the  baby  most  of  all. 

Then  with  a  jerk  that  irritated  him  the  train  started. 
The  relief  of  motion  was  so  great  that  for  a  moment  the 
strain  seemed  lifted. 

An  agent  passed  with  an  armful  of  books.     He  took  the 


THE    DESCENDANT  233 

first  that  was  handed  him,  running  the  leaves  idly  through 
his  fingers.  It  was  Mr.  Chambers's  King  in  Yellow,  and  the 
head-lines  caught  his  eye,  conveying  an  impression  without 
an  idea  :  "The  Repairer  of  Reputations."  Why  should  not 
reputations  be  repaired?  "The  Yellow  Sign."  Why  yel 
low  ?  And  then  "  The  Studio  "  staggered  him  with  the  sud 
denness  of  a  blow.  From  the  page  before  him,  suggested  by 
the  words,  the  familiar  room  dawned  gradually  :  the  glow  of 
the  fire  in  the  grate,  the  faded  carpet  upon  the  floor,- the 
Eastern  pottery  in  one  corner,  the  pictures  on  the  wall,  the 
plaster  casts  above  the  door,  the  marble  statue  of  "  Hope  " 
upon  a  little  table,  the  bust  of  Michael  Angelo  upon  her 
desk,  the  hangings  at  the  windows,  the  paints,  the  brushes, 
the  canvases  —  all  the  objects  upon  which  she  had  im 
pressed  her  vivid  personality.  The  recollection  was  not 
pleasant ;  it  was  by  a  mechanical  predominance  of  memory 
over  will  that  it  prevailed. 

Striving  to  banish  the  real  by  the  ideal,  he  followed  the 
page  upon  which  his  eye  had  fallen  : 
"  He  said  :  *  For  whom  do  you  wait  ?'  " 
"  And  I  answered :  '  When  she  comes  I  shall  know  her.'  " 
He  threw  the  book  aside.  For  whom  did  he  wait  ?  Then — 
"  I  am  a  man,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  face  it." 
What  it  was  that  he  thus  determined  to  confront  he  did 
not  know.     To  himself  he  admitted  no  possible  reason  for 
Rachel's  decision.     He  accepted  it  mentally,  as  he  had  ac 
cepted  it  the  evening  before,  viewing  the  facts  of  his  life 
through  a  discolored  veil. 

The  flickering  lights  of  the  train  reflected  upon  the  win 
dow-pane  dazzled  him,  the  swaying  motion  seemed  the  re 
sult  of  intoxication.  He  stared  into  the  obscurity  with  un 
seeing  eyes.  The  landscape  stretched  in  a  sombre  weird- 
ness  that  was  as  a  triumph  of  the  supernatural.  A  dim 
line  of  pearl-colored  clouds  in  the  distance  suggested  a  pos 
sible  horizon  to  the  blackness — blackness  broken  only  by 
shrouded  outlines  of  leafless  trees  and  barbed-wire  fences, 
speeding  rapidly  past,  their  places  being  as  rapidly  refilled, 


234  THE    DESCENDANT 

He  brushed  the  frown  from  his  brow  with  a  single  gesture 
of  his  hand.  Desire  had  so  long  guided  him  in  the  guise 
of  reason  that  it  was  no  great  difficulty  to  follow  where  it 
led,  deeming  himself  secure.  It  was  as  if  his  whole  being 
sprang  forward,  drawn  by  some  magnetic  force,  seeking, 
however  dimly,  a  loadstar  in  the  distance.  What  that  load 
star  signified  he  dared  not  question.  He  even  put  its  ex 
istence  angrily  aside ;  and  yet,  ignore  it  as  he  would,  a  calm 
presence  shone  as  through  a  nebulous  vista,  far  beyond  the 
tumult  of  the  present,  and — ignore  it  still  more  doggedly — 
that  presence  was  Anna  Allard. 

The  severe  recoil  from  the  sinking  reefs  of  his  fanaticism 
served  as  an  impetus  which  impelled  him  towards  conven 
tions.  His  nature  strained  towards  that  decent  ambition 
of  decent  people — respectability.  .  Love  and  notoriety  were 
his  for  the  asking,  but  not  honor  and — Anna  Allard. 

Beyond  the  difficulties  investing  the  path  that  led  to  the 
accomplishment  of  his  desire  rose  the  objects  desired,  the 
more  alluring  to  his  combative  nature  because  unattainable. 
And  yet —  Why  unattainable  ?  Only  yesterday  he  had 
noticed  the  altered  looks  bent  upon  him.  Only  yesterday 
his  hand  had  been  grasped  by  a  man  whom  he  had  long 
held  as  an  opponent — an  apostle  of  respectability.  It  had 
been  a  new  experience  and  a  pleasurable  one.  Now  that 
his  mind  was  purged  from  passion,  he  could  look  upon  men 
as  they  were,  not  as  his  diseased  imagination  had  distorted 
them.  He  saw  that  in  his  old  enmity  against  the  world  he 
had  pursued  a  course  devoid  of  policy. 

To  get  the  best  that  the  world  can  give  and  hold  it 
grudgingly  is  a  surer  revenge  than  squandering  one's  birth 
right  of  ability  in  the  waging  of  a  fruitless  war.  It  was  not 
that  he  had  grown  fonder  of  the  world  or  of  those  men 
who  called  themselves  his  brothers,  but  that  he  realized 
that  the  revolt  of  the  one  against  the  many  is  an  ineffectual 
revolt;  that  to  take  all  life  can  offer  is  wiser  than  offering 
one's  self  a  victim  upon  the  sacrificial  altar  of  conventions. 

Yes ;  he  wanted  the  opportunities  that  men  open  only  to 


THE   DESCENDANT  235 

men  who  are  like  themselves.  He  wanted  his  reputation 
repaired.  What  an  excellent  thing  it  was  that  one  had 
the  power  to  repair  one's  reputation  !  In  a  flash  he  re 
membered  the  appointment  of  which  Driscoll  had  spoken. 
He  knew  that  a  word  from  Driscoll  would  procure  it,  and 
he  also  knew  how  gladly  Driscoll  would  speak  that  word. 
Driscoll !  Why  was  it  that  the  name  of  the  man  whose  es 
teem  he  most  coveted  was  linked  in  his  mind  to  the  name 
of  the  woman  who  he  now  knew  had  hindered  his  career  ? 
Why  was  it  that  in  facing  Driscoll  he  must  face  Rachel 
also  ?  Were  they  in  league  against  him  ?  Was  Driscoll 
that  some  one  whose  existence  she  had  not  denied  ?  Then 
even  to  his  prejudiced  eyes  the  subterfuge  showed  too  weak 
to  stand.  Absurdity  was  bald  upon  the  face  of  it. 

He  ground  his  teeth  as  one  in  torture.  What  was  it  that 
haunted  him  ?  Without  was  the  blackness  of  night,  within 
the  glare  of  swinging  lamps. 

What  was  it  ?  Passionately  he  strove  to  collect  himself, 
but  that  something — that  intangible  something,  for  which 
he  had  no  name  and  no  acknowledgment — rose  from  the 
chaos  of  thought  and  confronted  him.  All  the  accumulat 
ed  experience  of  years,  the  lingering  effects  of  which  acted 
as  his  conscience,  grouped  themselves  one  by  one  about 
him.  His  sense  of  gratitude,  which  served  him  for  a  sense 
of  duty,  awoke.  All  the  little  kindnesses  that  men  had 
done  unto  him  and  forgotten  were  resurrected  from  the 
dust  in  which  they  had  lain,  grouping  about  a  light  and 
gracious  vision  that  glimmered  in  the  night  without. 

His  nature  still  strained  onward  through  that  pale  vista 
leading  ahead,  but  something  which  fettered  him  like  a 
chain  held  him  back  ;  and  that  chain  was  formed  by  links 
of  the  little  kindnesses  of  men. 

In  the  chain  came  the  farmer  in  his  rusty  suit  of  jeans, 
turning  to  look  at  him  with  his  watery  eyes,  and  passing 
him  the  supper  which  he  had  saved  from  his  own.  Why 
did  that  link  him  to  Rachel  ? 

The  minister,  with  his  great  nose  and  short  chin  ;  the 


THE    DESCENDANT 


236 

books  which  he  had  loaned  him ;  the  seventeen  cents  jin 
gling  in  his  pocket,  as  he,  a  little  outcast,  darted  along  the 
dusty  road  that  evening  ;  his  very  enjoyment  of  that  circus — 
why  did  that  link  him  to  Rachel  ? 

The  woman  who  had  held  his  head  that  night  in  the  pub 
lic  park,  the  softened  look  in  her  eyes  as  she  chafed  his 
forehead,  the  dime  that  she  had  slipped  into  his  hand— why 
did  that  link  him  to  Rachel  ? 

And  Driscoll?  Driscoll,  as  he  sat  in  his  office  chair 
looking  with  cynical  eyes  upon  life ;  Driscoll,  who  had 
stood  as  a  pillar  of  fire  to  his  mental  night  —  why,  above 
all,  did  Driscoll  link  him  to  Rachel  ? 

Goaded  to  frenzy,  he  raised  the  window,  leaning  out  into 
the  night,  watching  the  train  as  it  rounded  a  curve,  speed 
ing  with  fiery  eyes  into  blackness.  A  hot  air  laden  with 
cinders  blew  into  his  face. 

"  Will  you  kindly  lower  that  window  ?  I  am  subject  to 
neuralgia." 

The  frail  lady  was  speaking.  He  looked  at  her  blankly, 
and  she  was  forced  to  repeat  her  request  before  he  com 
plied.  The  lady  retired  into  her  berth,  and  soon  the  cur 
tains  were  put  up  along  the  aisle. 

A  man  took  the  seat  beside  him,  turning  to  follow  drow 
sily  the  movements  of  the  porter.  It  was  the  stout  gentle 
man  with  the  gray  travelling-cap.  He  folded  a  single  sheet 
of  The  Herald  into  a  narrow  strip,  tapping  his  nose  reflect 
ively.  "  Unusually  chilly  for  this  season,"  he  remarked. 

Michael  stared  at  him  absently.  "  It  is  hot,"  he  replied ; 
"  or  is  it  cold  ?" 

The  stout  gentleman  bestowed  upon  him  that  pleasant 
smile  with  which  we  favor  those  less  gifted  than  ourselves 
in  the  matter  of  intellect.  "  Well,  cold,  rather,"  he  respond 
ed,  amiably.  Then  he  continued :  "  We  are  having  trouble 
out  West  again,  I  see." 

"Yes,"  said  Michael,  turning  his  dazed  eyes  to  the  win 
dow.  "  A  blizzard,  was  it  not  ?" 

Another  pleasant  smile  crossed  the  gentleman's  face.    "  I 


THE   DESCENDANT  237 

was  alluding  to  the  strike,"  he  answered.  "  The  blizzard 
happened  yesterday.  We  don't  take  account  of  yesterday's 
news  in  Chicago.  We  take  to-day's,  and  grumble  because 
we  can't  get  to-morrow's." 

The  gentleman  departed  to  his  berth,  and  Michael  put 
up  his  hand  to  screen  his  eyes  from  the  glaring  lamps. 
The  porter  touched  him  upon  the  arm.  "  I  shall  sit  up," 
he  said,  surlily. 

And  in  the  morning,  when,  upon  reaching  Richmond, 
he  found  himself  in  time  for  the  returning  train,  he  took 
it.  The  trip  had  saved  him  from  insanity,  and  decided 
nothing. 

That  night  he  spent  at  a  hotel,  and  the  next  morning, 
drawn  by  very  indecision,  he  returned  to  his  rooms.  On 
the  way  he  passed  Rachel's  studio,  and  from  a  sudden  im 
pulse  knocked  at  the  door.  There  was  no  answer.  Open 
ing  it,  he  was  startled  by  blank  walls ;  the  firelight,  the 
hangings,  the  canvases,  the  casts,  the  pictures  —  all  were 
gone,  and  Rachel  with  them.  In  the  haste  with  which  she 
had  deserted  her  accustomed  spot  he  read  a  feverish  shrink 
ing  from  himself;  in  the  bare  wall  and  the  sacrilegious 
sacking  of  this  her  temple  he  saw  the  overthrow  of  those 
passionate  divinities  of  the  past.  It  was  as  one  who  enters 
a  cathedral  that  has  been  suffused  with  the  purple  mysti 
cism  of  mediaeval  ages  to  find  it  naked  to  the  cold,  raw 
light  of  modern  thought.  The  last  shred  of  romanticism, 
draping  the  altar  before  which  he  had  knelt,  was  swept 
aside.  Rachel's  spirit,  that  light,  elusive  essence  of  mod 
ernism,  the  outcome  of  an  effete  civilization,  crumbling  to 
dust  upon  the  soil  from  which  she,  an  untranslatable  mixt 
ure  of  the  past  and  the  future,  had  sprung,  had  escaped  as 
a  vapor  from  the  place  thereof. 

In  an  agonizing  perplexity  he  left,  going  to  his  office. 
There  he  found  disorder  and  excitement.  Mr.  Mushington, 
the  man  of  money,  awaited  him.  He  had  a  complaint  to 
lodge,  and  he  lodged  it  with  emphasis. 

"The  paper  is  going  down,"  he  said.     "There  is  a  mad- 


238  THE    DESCENDANT 

ness  about  the  editorials  which  amounts  to  insanity.     Can 
you  explain  it,  sir  ?" 

Akershem  looked  into  his  red  and  bloated  face  with  in 
solent  eyes. 

"  I  cannot,"  he  answered.  It  was  his  first  revolt  from 
the  service  of  Mammon. 

"Then,  sir,  you  know  precious  little  about  your  busi 
ness!" 

In  sudden  fury  the  Gordian  knot  was  severed. 

"And  will  know  still  less  about  it  in  future.  Expect  my 
resignation." 

He  would  let  this  infernal  nonsense  go.  He  was  sick  of 
fanaticism  and  women.  By  one  stroke  he  had  cut  himself 
adrift  from  his  old  life,  ridding  himself  forever  of  the  past 
and  of  the  present.  Only  the  future  remained. 

He  remembered  Driscoll  and  the  appointment.  That 
was  his  chance,  and  he  would  make  it  good. 

As  he  rushed  from  the  office  a  group  of  reporters,  as 
sembled  about  the  door,  drew  back. 

"  What's  up  with  Akershem  ?"  asked  one.  "  He's  as 
mad  as  a  March  hare." 

The  sleeplessness,  the  perplexity,  had  fed  upon  him,  pro 
ducing  an  agony  that  was  almost  insanity.  He  felt  his 
blood  coursing  like  fire  through  his  veins,  and  a  dull  pain 
started  at  the  base  of  his  brain.  Lights  flickered  and 
danced  before  his  eyes. 

The  primitive  lawlessness  of  his  nature,  aggravated  by 
the  swaddling-bands  of  the  hot-bed  of  civilization,  rose  in 
a  tempestuous  desire  to  assert  itself.  Conventions  which, 
acting  like  a  moral  strait-jacket,  curb  the  normal  man,  in 
flame  the  abnormal.  But  conventions  are  created  and 
stamped  with  the  Divine  signature,  not  for  the  one,  but  for 
the  many. 

He  entered  a  bar-room,  drinking  a  glass  of  brandy,  but 
it  failed  to  drive  the  lights  away.     It  was  as  if  his  eyeballs 
were  on  fire. 
„    With  an  impetuous  haste  he  rushed  to  Driscoll's  room, 


THE   DESCENDANT  239 

and  found  that  gentleman  sitting  before  the  fire,  a  bottle  of 
brandy  at  his  hand  and  misery  upon  his  face. 

Seeing  Akershem,  he  exclaimed  :  "  The  very  man  !  Be 
hold  me  in  the  clutches  of  the  devil.  He  is  sawing  every 
bone  in  my  right  side  to  bits.  I  leave  for  Florida  to-day." 

Akershem  took  no  notice.  "  Look  here,  Driscoll,"  he 
said,  excitedly,  "  I  have  resigned  from  The  Iconoclast.  I 
want  that  credential  for  Splicer." 

Driscoll  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  Then,  without  speak 
ing,  he  rose  and  limped  to  his  desk.  As  he  put  his  right 
foot  to  the  floor  his  brow  contracted  with  pain.  "  It  is  a 
temptation  never  to  rise,"  he  remarked,  "  and  having  risen, 
it  is  an  equal  temptation  never  to  sit."  With  pen  in  hand 
he  paused.  "  It's  all  right  about  the  place,  Shem,"  he  said. 
"But"— he  hesitated  a  moment— " Shem,  this  is  a  serious 
affair— more  serious  for  you  than  for  most  men.  You  see, 
you  must  square  up  all  your  accounts.  You  can  hardly  re 
adjust  your  political  views  until  you  have  made  reparation 
for  your  discarded  social  ones." 

Michael  flinched.  "  Those  have  readjusted  themselves," 
he  replied,  stolidly. 

Over  Driscoll's  face  a  warm  light  broke  ;  a  flash  of  relief 
brightened  his  eyes.  "That's  right !"  he  exclaimed,  hearti 
ly.  "  I  expected  it  of  you,  old  fellow.  So  that  explains 
why  I  found  Miss  Gavin's  studio  deserted  when  I  called 
there  yesterday.  Where  are  you  staying  ?" 

A  ramifying  humiliation  shot  through  Michael's  frame. 
It  was  like  the  application  of  an  electric  wire  to  raw  flesh. 
The  sensation  was  so  strange  that  it  half  startled  him. 
Never  in  his  life  had  he  felt  this  slow  sense  of  rising  shame 
that  he  felt  before  Driscoll — the  man  who  believed  in  him. 
A  red  flush  mounted  to  his  brow.  Then,  with  desperate 
resolve,  he  raised  his  eyes.  "I  cannot  tell  where  Miss 
Gavin  is,"  he  answered,  "  because  I  do  not  know." 

The  keenness  of  Driscoll's  glance  made  him  wince 
sharply.  "  Why,  what  does  it  mean  ?" 

Michael  laughed ;   it  was  a  harsh  laugh,  which  grated 


240  THE   DESCENDANT 

from  lack  of  humor.  Instinctively  he  realized  the  suspicion 
in  Driscoll's  mind,  and  it  angered  him.  "  It  means,"  he 
retorted,  fiercely,  "  that  she,  like  the  world,  has  weighed  me 
in  the  balance  and  found  me  wanting." 

A  flash  of  perplexity  shot  from  Driscoll's  eyes.  "That 
she  might  have  done  so  to  her  advantage,  I  admit,"  he  said ; 
"that  she  has  done  so,  I  refuse  to  believe." 

Akershem  flushed  hotly.  He  was  exhausted,  and  the 
lights  flickered  before  his  eyes.  "  Then  get  her  to  explain/' 
he  broke  in,  passionately,  "for  I  am  sick  of  the  whole  con 
founded  thing." 

"  But  explain  you  shall.  If  there  is  a  grain  of  manliness 
left  in  you  you  will  make  good  the  debt  you  owe  her. 
Good  God,  man  !  do  you  know  that  she  has  sacrificed  more 
for  you  than  your  salvation  is  worth  ?" 

The  blinking  of  Michael's  lids  grew  faster  and  a  yellow 
flame  shot  from  his  eyes.  His  face  was  gray,  and  upon 
his  brow  that  purple  vein  leaped  forth  like  the  brand  of 
Cain. 

"Do  I  need  you  to  tell  me  that  ?"  he  thundered.  "  I  tell 
you  I  know  nothing  of  her  and  her  vagaries— nothing !" 

Driscoll's  voice  was  low  and  distinct,  cutting  the  passion- 
ladened  air  like  steel.  "  This,"  he  said,  "  is  a  fitting  climax 
to  your  conduct  of  late.  Would  a  man  who  had  acquired 
an  instinct  of  honor  owe  to  one  woman  the  debt  that  you 
owed,  and  turn  from  her  to  follow  like  a  spaniel  at  the  heels 
of  another  ?  Perhaps  I  shall  hear  of  your  engagement  in 
that  quarter,"  he  added,  with  untempered  irony. 

Michael  was  quivering  from  head  to  foot.  "  I  love  where 
I  choose,  and  I  marry  where  I  choose !"  he  exclaimed, 
hotly. 

And  then  Driscoll  turned  upon  him.  "I  had  thought 
you  an  honest  fanatic,"  he  said,  "  but  now  I  know  you  are 
a  damned  scoundrel !" 

Akershem  shivered  from  the  white-heat  within  him.  The 
lights  in  the  air  before  him  flamed  from  blue  to  green  and 
from  green  to  scarlet.  His  eyes  flickered  like  rusty  iron 


THE   DESCENDANT  24! 

through  which  a  red-hot  fire  is  passing.  "  I  would  kill  an 
other  man  for  that !"  His  voice  was  choked  and  muffled. 

Driscoll  laughed  sarcastically.  Then,  with  a  quick  return 
of  his  old  manner,  he  took  up  his  pen.  As  he  did  so  he 
flinched  from  a  twinge  of  pain.  "  Hold  on,  if  you  please," 
he  called,  for  Michael  had  reached  the  door.  "  Allow  me 
to  give  you  this,"  he  continued,  with  icy  courtesy,  "  and,  be 
lieve  me,  it  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  use  my  influence, 
now  and  always,  for  the  advancement  of  your  business  in 
terests." 

Michael  crushed  the  paper  in  his  hand  convulsively. 
Then  he  threw  it  from  him.  He  wished  that  it  had  been 
dynamite,  that  it  might  explode,  blowing  Driscoll,  himself, 
and  the  room  to  atoms.  "  Take  that  for  your  influence  !" 
he  exclaimed. 

As  he  stood  there  in  his  passionate  defiance  something 
of  the  old  Michael  whom  Driscoll  had  first  known  and 
loved  shone  in  him,  and  the  fascination  which  his  dominant 
nature  exerted  over  all  who  loved  him  cast  a  shadowy  spell 
over  John  Driscoll  again.  He  softened  suddenly.  "  Shem," 
he  said,  with  a  gesture  that  was  half  appealing,  "  I  would 
have  forgiven  you  anything  else." 

And — "  Damn  your  forgiveness  !"  cried  Michael,  as  he 
rushed  out. 

The  rage  within  him  was  so  great  that  it  stifled  him,  and 
he  put  up  his  hand  to  loosen  his  collar.  A  terrible  ringing 
began  in  his  ears.  Every  bell  in  New  York  seemed  to  burst 
upon  him  with  an  infernal  din,  ringing  him  out  of  the  city. 

He  rushed  on,  almost  oblivious  of  his  way.  He  saw 
that  he  walked  upon  bricks  and  they  burned  his  feet.  He 
saw  that  people  were  passing  about  him,  and  he  longed  to 
fall  upon  them,  one  and  all,  to  do  some  terrible  damage  to 
mankind  or  to  himself.  A  newsboy  held  a  paper  towards 
him  and  he  pushed  it  aside  with  an  oath.  A  tiny  child 
stumbled  and  fell  at  his  feet,  and  he  strode  over  it  and 
went  upon  his  way. 

As  he  ascended  the  stairs  leading  to  his  office  an  adver- 

16 


242  THE    DESCENDANT 

tising  agent  passed  him,  and  he  bit  his  tongue  to  keep  back 
a  volley  of  curses.  Upon  the  landing  a  young  lawyer,  who 
had  an  office  across  the  hall,  was  standing,  a  huge  volume 
under  his  arm,  and  Michael  put  him  aside  as  he  would  have 
put  a  child. 

Entering  his  office,  he  slammed  the  door  violently.  When 
he  saw  that  he  was  not  alone,  that  Kyle  sat  at  his  desk,  he 
attacked  him  vehemently.  "  Can  I  never  have  my  room  to 
myself  ?"  he  demanded.  And  Kyle  turned  upon  him,  and 
he  saw  that  his  rage  was  equal  to  his  own. 

Kyle  left  the  desk,  and  Akershem  crossed  over  and  stood 
beside  it.  They  regarded  each  other  in  silence,  as  beasts 
awaiting  a  spring.  Michael  was  breathing  so  heavily  that  the 
labored  sound  fell  harshly  upon  the  stillness  of  the  room. 

Kyle  spoke  first.  "  So  this  is  the  end  of  your  princi 
ples  ?"  he  sneered,  with  a  snap  of  his  fingers. 

Akershem  clinched  his  hand  with  such  force  that  the 
nails  grew  purple.  A  fleck  of  foam  whitened  his  lips. 
"  Confound  you  !"  he  retorted,  "  what  is  it  to  you  ?" 

"  Did  you  strike  a  good  bargain  ?"  Kyle's  voice  rose 
jeeringly.  "  How  much  was  your  honor  worth  ?" 

With  one  hand  Akershem  opened  a  drawer,  closing  upon 
something.  The  other  he  stretched  out  passionately,  as  if 
warding  off  Kyle. 

"  Take  care,  Kyle  !"  he  shouted,  hoarsely — u  take  care  !" 

"  You  blackguard  !     Can't  you  name  your  price  ?" 

There  was  a  sudden  flash  as  of  lightning;  one  report 
that  rang  out  sharply  upon  the  silence;  a  tiny  cloud  of 
smoke  wreathing  heavenward  like  the  breath  of  a  prayer. 

"Oh!"  cried  Kyle,  sharply.  He  coughed  a  half-choked 
cough ;  a  clot  of  blood  rose  to  his  lips,  oozing  slowly  down 
upon  his  shirt,  and  from  his  shirt  to  the  floor — drip,  drip, 
drip.  He  reached  out,  clutching  at  emptiness,  and  fell 
heavily  forward. 

Akershem  threw  the  revolver  from  him.  It  struck  the 
opposite  wall  with  a  dull  clank.  Then  he  knelt  beside  Kyle, 
feeling,  with  white,  nerveless  fingers,  for  his  heart. 


THE    DESCENDANT  243 

"Kyle!  Kyle  !"  he  called.  "Speak!  You  aren't  hurt ! 
It  can't  be  !  Speak  !  Call  me  a  blackguard — anything!" 

Kyle's  eyes  stared  at  him  blankly,  barren  of  all  reproach  ; 
his  hand  fell  limp  and  relaxed  at  his  side. 

In  his  agony  Michael  rose,  stretching  out  groping,  ago 
nized  ringers,  clutching,  as  Kyle  had  clutched,  at  emptiness. 
"  Oh,  my  God  !"  he  cried. 

There  was  a  stir  at  the  door ;  in  a  moment  it  opened, 
and  when  his  eyes  had  cleared  a  group  surrounded  him. 
They  surveyed  him  curiously. 

Suddenly  a  man  coming  in  pushed  them  aside.  "  What 
is  it  ?"  he  cried.  "  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

The  lawyer  with  the  volume  under  his  arm  turned  quick 
ly.  "  Mean  ?"  he  answered,  with  professional  exactness. 
"  Why,  it  means  manslaughter." 


CHAPTER  IV 


THERE  was  noise  and  confusion  in  the  depot.  A  Presi 
dential  candidate,  after  having  successfully  instilled  into 
the  ears  of  the  North  the  fact  of  his  absolute  loyalty  to  that 
section,  was  journeying  South  for  the  purpose  of  convinc 
ing  the  voters  below  Mason  and  Dixon's  line  of  the  exact 
opposite.  As  he  strolled  along  the  platform  frantic  cheers 
arose  from  the  rabble  assembled.  Above  this  jubilant  ex 
pression  of  a  nation's  confidence  sounded  the  mocking 
whistle  of  out-going  trains,  and  the  shouting  of  station- 
hands  as  they  succeeded  in  demolishing  a  piece  of  heavy 
baggage. 

A  gentleman  standing  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  throng 
turned  to  wink  at  his  companion.  "Touching  tribute  of 
public  favor,"  he  remarked;  then  apologized  to  some  one, 
who,  in  leaving  the  waiting-room,  had  stumbled  against 
him,  thereby  knocking  him  breathless.  "Pardon  me  for 
existing—''  he  began,  when  all  irony  fled.  "  John  Driscoll, 
as  I'm  alive  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  What !  Seek  you  the  clime 
of  eternal  sunshine  ?" 

Halting  suddenly,  Driscoll  recognized  the  speaker  and 
smiled.  He  looked  ill  and  worn,  and  acute  physical  pain 
had  sharpened  his  features.  As  he  walked  he  limped 
slightly. 

"  You  are  looking  badly,  man,"  continued  the  first  gentle 
man. 

Without  replying  Driscoll  tossed  his  grip  to  a  porter. 
"  Florida  Special,"  he  said.  "  Section  six.  Look  sharp  !" 
Then  he  smiled  again.  "You  see,  it's  this  plagued  rheu 
matism,"  he  explained.  "  I  am  all  but  insane  !  If  I  can't 
cut  this  eternal  civilization  my  mind  won't  be  worth  a  con- 


THE   DESCENDANT  245 

tinental.  As  long  as  your  bones  aren't  crumbling  you  can 
put  up  with  it,  but  the  devil  and  civilization  at  one  dose 
will  prepare  any  man  for  bedlam." 

"  It  is  annoying,"  commented  the  second  gentleman, 
motioning  to  the  excited  crowd.  "Witness  some  of  the 
faults  of  our  nervous  age.  Now  civilization  is — " 

"Tommy-rot!"  interrupted  Driscoll,  crossly.  "  But  you 
can't  get  rid  of  it,"  he  complained,  irritably.  "  I've  tried 
every  spot  upon  the  known  world.  Even  Greenland  has 
its  explorers  ;  and  as  for  Africa,  by  Jove  !  I  settled  in  a  jun 
gle  once,  when  who  should  come  along  but  a  missionary 
who  wanted  to  convert  the  apes.  And  Florida  !  why,  when 
I  bought  my  place  near  Key  West  there  wasn't  a  man  in 
shooting  distance,  and  now,  mind  you,  a  German  has  put 
up  a  cottage  across  from  me  with  green  window-blinds.  Of 
all  the  abominations  of  civilization  there  is  not  one  that  I 
abhor  so  utterly  as  green  window-blinds." 

"  But  you  return  to  them." 

"  Not  I !  I  am  going  to  buy  a  little  island  to  myself — 
one  of  those  small  ones,  you  know,  off  Jamaica — and  there 
I'm  going  to  settle,  and  I'll  shoot  the  first  thing  in  clothes 
that  sets  foot  upon  it — " 

"Hello!"  called  a  man  from  behind;  "that's  Mr.  Driscoll, 
isn't  it  ?  I  say,  John,  this  is  a  bad  thing  about  Akershem." 

Driscoll  scowled  silently. 

"  Why,  what  has  he  done  now  ?"  demanded  the  first  gen 
tleman.  "  I  thought  he  had  quieted  down  of  late." 

"  The  mischief !  Why,  there's  been  a  row  at  The  Icono 
clast.  Something  between  Akershem  and — what's  his  name, 
that  Irish  fellow  ?" 

Driscoll  started.  "What  is  it?"  he  demanded.  "Who 
is  it  ?  When  did  it  happen  ?" 

"  They  quarrelled — something  about  the  paper,  they  say 
— and  Akershem  shot  him  down.  Shot  him  in  cold — " 

"  Here,  porter  !"  called  Driscoll,  excitedly,  "  stop  my  bag 
gage  ;  it  can't  go !  Confound  it,  let  it  go  if  it  wants  to  I" 
And  he  rushed  off, 


THE    DESCENDANT 


At  the  door  some  one  stopped  him  inquiringly.    "  What's 
wrong  ?" 

"  Oh,  Akershem  !     He's  made  a  fool  of  himself  at  last." 
And  he  passed  on. 

"  That's  a  weakness  of  DriscolPs  that  I  can't  understand," 
remarked  the  first  gentleman,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 
"  Nor  I,"  agreed  the  second.     "  I  always  said  Akershem 
would  come  to  the  gallows.     It's  no  surprise  to  me." 

"  He  was  always  such  a  —  such  a  cad,  you  know,"  added 
the  third. 

In  John  Driscoll's  mind  just  then  there  was  only  room 
for  self-reproach.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  own  impetu 
osity  had  been  the  cause  of  Akershem's  overthrow.  Know 
ing  Michael's  undisciplined  nature  and  his  own  disciplined 
one,  he  told  himself  that  he  was  a  fool  to  judge  him  as  he 
judged  himself  —  or  any  other  man.  As  the  result  of  con 
flicting  circumstances  he  saw  that  Michael  was  but  a  vic 
tim  to  disregarded  but  controlling  laws  —  laws  that  remain 
ignored  for  generations,  and  recoil  upon  the  heads  of  the 
children  of  children.  Now  that  his  anger  had  cooled  he 
saw  in  him  not  the  man  revolting  against  the  system,  but 
the  abnormal  development  revolting  against  the  normal. 
He  beheld  in  him  an  expression  of  the  old  savage  type, 
beaten  out  by  civilization,  and  yet  recurring  here  and  there 
in  the  history  of  the  race,  to  wage  the  old  savage  war 
against  society.  And  he  reproached  himself,  remembering 
Michael  as  he  had  seen  him  last,  his  nature  aroused  in  all 
its  primitive  ferocity  ;  the  seething  passion  which  he,  John 
Driscoll,  had  laughed  at  because  he  could  not  understand. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  had  he  reached  forth  and  drawn  him 
back,  had  he  ventured  one  appeal  to  that  better  nature 
which  was  overthrown  and  vanquished,  this  tragedy  might 
have  been  averted. 

He,  the  cynic  ;  he,  the  clear-headed  scientist,  had  been 

dolt  enough  to  ignore  the  force  of  that  unreasoning  violence 

because  the  force  was  opposed  to  his  own.     Dolt  !     Idiot  ! 

And  now,  when  the  key  turned  in  the  lock  and  he  stood 


THE   DESCENDANT  247 

face  to  face  with  Akershem,  he  felt  constrained  from  very 
strength  of  feeling. 

Michael,  hearing  the  opening  door,  turned  from  the  win 
dow  of  his  cell  and  faced  him.  The  daylight  sifting  through 
the  bars  showed  the  intensity  that  hate  and  wretchedness 
had  graven  upon  his  face. 

"  Shem  !" 

He  came  slowly  forward,  and  for  a  moment  they  stood 
with  locked  hands. 

"  Driscoll !  so  it  is  you !" 

Driscoll  felt  something  choke  in  his  throat ;  he  coughed. 
"  Shem,  old  man,"  he  repeated,  and  it  was  all  that  he  could 
say.  There  was  so  much  to  feel  and  so  little  to  express. 

Akershem  turned  from  him  as  if  avoiding  an  expression 
of  sympathy.  He  walked  restlessly  towards  the  door  and 
restlessly  back  again.  "  So  you  have  heard  ?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

He  went  on  rapidly.  He  looked  feverish,  his  face  was 
flushed,  and  there  was  suppressed  excitement  in  his  voice; 
his  eyes  emitted  a  nervous  glare.  "  To  think  that  it  was 
Kyle !"  he  said.  "  If  it  had  been  some  one  else  I  don't 
think  I  should  have  been  so  cut  up;  but  Kyle  of  all  men. 
Why  wasn't  it  Mr.  Mushington  ?  Why  wasn't  it  that  beast 
Van  Houne  ?  Why  was  it  obliged  to  be  anybody  ?  I  never 
hurt  anything  in  my  life.  I  always  hated  pain.  I  could 
not  see  a  chicken-fight  without  getting  sick.  Why  did  I 
do  it  ?  Oh,  I  was  mad — mad  !  And  yet  if  I  was  mad,  why 
do  I  remember  it  so  distinctly  ?  I  see  him  as  he  stood 
there.  I  see  him  clutch  out.  I  see  the  blood  that  he 
coughed  up,  oozing  upon  his  shirt.  I  see  him  as  he  lay 
there  dead — stone-dead." 

Driscoll  groaned.  "  Shem,"  he  reasoned,  "  it  was  in  self- 
defence.  Stop  and  remember.  Surely  he  would  have 
struck  you." 

Michael  threw  back  his  head  impatiently.  The  fever  in 
his  face  deepened. 

"  No ;  he  only  spoke.     I  remember  it  well.     He  held  out 


248  THE    DESCENDANT 

his  hand,  but  it  was  his  gesture,  and  I  knew  it.  He  was 
always  dramatic,  you  know.  I  tell  you  he  was  right ;  he 
knew  me  better  than  I  knew  myself — " 

"  But  he  raised  his  hand.  Think ;  your  freedom  depends 
upon  it.  He  came  towards  you,  he  raised  his  hand." 

"  It  was  a  gesture,  I  tell  you,  and  I  knew  it.  Am  I  a 
fool  ?  Do  you  want  to  make  a  liar  of  me  as  well  as  a  mur 
derer  ?  Good  God !" 

Driscoll  looked  into  his  excited  face  and  grew  angry. 
Did  Akershem  realize  that  he  was  ruining  himself  ?  Was 
he  mad?  He  felt  an  impulse  to  kick  somebody  —  Aker 
shem  or  himself.  Why,  after  all,  should  he  hold  himself 
responsible  for  Michael — for  his  love  affairs  and  his  crimes  ? 
What  had  he  to  do  with  it  ? 

Akershem  was  silent,  his  gaze  bent  upon  the  floor.  He 
was  wellnigh  delirious,  and  Driscoll,  seeing  it,  was  softened. 

Suddenly  Akershem  spoke.     "Poor  Kyle,"  he  said. 

A  twinge  of  rheumatism  caused  Driscoll  to  flinch  sharp 
ly.  The  physical  pain  irritated  him.  He  was  provoked  by 
Akershem's  obstinacy  and  his  own  concern. 

"  Do  you  know,"  continued  Akershem,  "  that  the  only 
thing  I  ever  killed  in  my  life  was  a  rabbit  ?  I  murdered  a 
rabbit  once — shot  it  just  as  I  shot  Kyle,  in  cold  blood.  I 
did  it  for  pure  devilment — for  the  pleasure  of  it.  I  was  a 
fiend  then,  as  I  was  a  fiend  yesterday.  I  wanted  blood. 
And  since  I  have  been  sitting  here  and  trying  to  think  of 
Kyle,  I  can't  believe  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  am  a  boy 
and  that  it  is  a  rabbit.  I  see  it  as  clearly  as  I  saw  it  then 
— the  pasture,  the  sunrise,  and  the  rabbit  in  the  road.  I 
see  it  all  alive,  and  then  I  hear  the  cry  it  gave ;  I  see  the 
blood  on  its  mouth,  and  the  life  has  gone  out.  It  is  that 
horrible  feeling  of  having  crushed  out  life.  Why  is  it  that 
I  can't  get  that  rabbit  out  of  my  head  ?  It  was  Kyle — 
Kyle — Kyle.  And  I  was  not  mad.  I  was  only  a  devil." 

"  For  God's  sake,  Shem,  be  quiet !  If  money  and  influ 
ence  are  worth  anything  you  shall  be  free,  but  you  must 
help  us." 


THE    DESCENDANT  249 

But  Akershem  paid  no  heed  ;  he  had  fallen  into  a  torpor, 
and  was  gazing  at  the  bare  walls. 

"  Unless  the  New  York  lawyers  are  bigger  fools,  or  a  New 
York  jury  honester  men  than  those  of  any  other  spot,  we 
will  get  you  off,"  added  Driscoll.  Afterwards  he  wondered 
why  Kyle's  death  had  seemed  such  a  small  matter  in  com 
parison  with  Akershem's  liberty,  and  could  not  say. 

On  his  way  out  Semple  overtook  him,  and  his  sympa 
thetic  utterances  increased  DriscoiPs  ill -humor.  He  was 
disgusted  with  the  world,  with  Semple,  with  Akershem,  with 
himself.  This  infernal  aching  in  his  limbs — would  it  never 
leave  ofl  ? 

"  Our  counsel,"  said  Semple,  with  accustomed  optimism, 
"  is  the  best  in  New  York.  Akershem  will  be  backed  by 
wealth  and  influence,  two  powers  which  count.  If  the 
worst  comes  to  the  worst,  we  must  remember  that  justice  is 
salable.  But  I  wish  you'd  reason  with  him,  Mr.  Driscoll, 
when  he  grows  quieter.  It  is  out  of  all  question,  the  stand 
that  he  takes.  Public  opinion  was  never  on  his  side,  and 
he  can't  afford  to  trifle  with  it.  He'll  have  to  fight  preju 
dices  enough  without  adding  to  them." 

A  twinge  again.  "  Hang  it  all !"  broke  in  Driscoll,  irri 
tably.  "  Haven't  I  reasoned  with  him  until  I  haven't  a 
grain  left  for  my  own  use  ?  After  getting  us  into  this  con 
founded  mess,  Akershem  sits  up  and  talks  his  rot.  He 
knows  it  will  depend  upon  us  to  get  him  out." 

"  It  is  unfortunate,"  admitted  Semple,  his  jovial  brow 
clouding.  "  He  has  been  reckless,  far  too  reckless.  I 
feared  evil." 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  didn't  fear  it  a  little  sooner ;  then  you 
might  have  refrained  from  instilling  your  nonsense  into  him. 
He  has  only  lived  out  the  views  you  play  with.  Good- 
evening." 

Turning  a  corner  he  disappeared,  leaving  Semple  trans 
fixed  upon  the  sidewalk. 

Between  physical  and  mental  pain  Driscoll  was  wellnigh 
exhausted.  He  was  tired  of  humanity  in  general  anci 


25o  THE    DESCENDANT 

Hedley  Semple  in  particular.  He  wanted  only  to  be  alone 
and  to  think.  As  he  opened  his  door  a  slight  sound  from 
the  inside  caused  him  to  frown  blackly.  "  More  fools,"  he 
muttered. 

Then  he  entered,  and  Rachel  Gavin  rose  and  came 
towards  him.  She  had  been  sitting  before  the  fire,  her 
brow  resting  upon  her  gloved  hand,  and  at  his  entrance 
had  risen  hurriedly,  her  muff  falling  to  the  floor.  Despite 
the  pain  in  her  eyes  her  whole  figure  was  so  light  and 
blooming — so  vitally  alive — that  the  contrast  between  it  and 
the  jaded  man  whom  he  had  left  in  his  cell  jarred  Driscoll 
painfully.  He  felt  that  Rachel  and  he  were  at  the  bottom 
of  the  whole  tragedy.  "  Can't  you,  at  least,  keep  out  of 
this?"  he  demanded. 

Rachel  stopped  suddenly,  a  slight,  startled  figure,  before 
him.  Even  then  he  noticed  that  there  was  an  added  dig 
nity  in  her  presence— the  dignity  of  grief.  "  Oh,  you  must 
help  me  !"  she  cried.  "  You  don't — you  can't — know  what 
it  means!" 

He  felt  goaded  and  harassed.  The  agony  in  his  arm  as 
he  lifted  it  turned  him  white.  But  for  these  two  he  would 
have  left  this  climate  and  have  found  relief.  The  knowl 
edge  that  for  Rachel's  sake  he  had  put  all  the  passion  of 
his  nature  into  that  last  interview— the  interview  that  had 
driven  Michael  to  his  ruin — hardened  him.  "  My  ignorance 
of  your  meaning  I  confess,"  he  said,  ironically.  "  As  to 
what  you  are  driving  at,  I  suppose  it  concerns  Aker- 
shem." 

She  grew  white ;  the  terror  in  her  eyes  was  appealing. 
"  Tell  me,"  she  pleaded,  "  how  you  left  him  ?" 

"  In  excellent  health.  You  can  hardly  expect  his  spirits 
to  be  above  zero ;  ours  are  not." 

"  But  you  must  help  me.  I  must  see  him.  Won't  you 
take  me  ?" 

He  eyed  her  with  irritated  displeasure.  "Are  you  sure 
that  he  would  wish  to  see  you  ?"  he  asked,  and  felt  dully  the 
cruelty  of  his  speech. 


THE   DESCENDANT  251 

She  drew  back,  shivering  slightly  as  one  in  pain.  From 
her  face  all  trace  of  color  had  flown.  "  That — that  is  not 
the  question,"  she  faltered. 

And  then  in  desperation  he  spoke,  knowing  that  he  alone 
had  the  power  to  save  the  few  shreds  that  remained  of  a 
reputation  that  had  once  been  as  white  as  driven  snow,  and 
that  for  her  at  least  Akershem  would  not  be  worth  the  sac 
rifice. 

"We  would  go  together,  you  and  I,"  he  said,  mock 
ingly.  "  The  world  has  a  sense  of  humor,  and  we  should 
afford  it  an  opportunity  for  gratifying  it.  It  would  say 
that  we  were  beginning  to  console  each  other,  you 
and  I." 

Some  demon  seemed  urging  him  on.  Again  she  shivered, 
hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  again  he  felt  the  brutality 
of  his  words. 

When  she  looked  up  it  was  with  fresh  resolve.  Her  hat 
had  slipped  aside,  and  he  saw  the  anguish  upon  her  face. 
"But  —  but  you  can't  understand.  It  is  my  fault,"  she 
pleaded,  the  tear-drops  falling  from  her  eyes  upon  her 
gloved  hands  —  "it  is  my  fault !  Oh,  how  can  I  bear  it!" 
The  last  was  a  cry  of  agony,  wrung  from  her  by  the  mem 
ory  of  his  words.  He  looked  at  her,  and  his  eyes  soft 
ened.  "  You  cannot  judge  him,  nor  can  I,"  she  said,  and 
his  heart  hardened.  How  dare  she  seek  to  palliate  Mi 
chael's  guilt  to  him  !  "  He  is  all  impulse  —  all  emotion. 
We—" 

"  Yes,  you  and  I  are  without  feeling,"  he  assented,  in  grim 
irony. 

"  Oh,  don't !  don't !"  she  cried,  despairingly.  "  Pity  me ! 
— at  least  pity  me  !" 

"Rachel!" 

"  I  have  made  so  many  mistakes,"  she  sobbed,  "  I  have 
done  so  much  harm.  I  have  ruined  him  whom  I  loved. 
My  purest  motive  has  been  at  fault.  But  if  you  knew  all 
you  would  have  mercy  !" 

"  Rachel,  don't  mind  me.     Can't  you  see  that  I  don't 


252  THE    DESCENDANT 

mean  it  ?  I  only  seek  to  spare  you — to  spare  you  a  useless 
sacrifice !" 

"  Useless !" 

"He  thinks  only  of  himself  and  his — his  fault.  If  you 
went  to  him  the  whole  world  would  condemn  you.  It  would 
spoil  all  chances  of  your  future  life,  and — 

"  What  is  that  to  me  ?     What  do  I  care  for  my  life  ?" 

"And  not  help  him." 

"  But— but  I  must  go  !" 

"He  has  not  mentioned  you." 

"  I  must  see  him  !" 

"  He  does  not  think  of  you." 

She  looked  at  him,  her  hands  clasped  convulsively. 
"  Why — why  are  you  so  cruel  ?"  she  asked. 

The  smile  that  he  bent  upon  her  was  half  sad,  half  cyni 
cal.  "Perhaps  I  have  a  few  sensations,  after  all,"  he  re 
plied,  "  despite  your  previous  assertion." 

She  turned  from  him  hopelessly,  then  back  again.  "  If 
—if  he  asks  for  me,  will  you  take  me  ?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  down  upon  her  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"Yes,"  he  said. 

She  went  out  silently,  but  in  a  moment  came  back.  Her 
eyes,  as  she  looked  at  him,  were  luminous.  "  Forgive  me  !" 
she  said.  "  You  are  a  far — far  better  friend  to  him  than  I 
have  been." 

"  Rachel !"  He  cried  the  name  sharply.  She  held  out 
her  hands  and  he  took  them  in  his  own. 

"  You  made  him,"  she  said,  with  a  shadow  of  her  old 
radiant  smile,  "  and  I  have  unmade  him." 

For  Rachel  yesterday  he  could  have  killed  Michael  ;  to 
Rachel  to-day  he  could  speak  no  word. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  passed  out. 

Driscoll  stood  looking  after  her.  He  saw  her  muff  lying 
upon  the  floor  where  she  had  left  it,  and  he  calculated  the 
amount  of  agony  that  it  would  cost  to  stoop  and  pick  it  up. 
The  calculation  overbalanced  his  possible  powers  of  endur 
ance,  and  he  decided  to  let  it  Jie.  Then  he  turned  slowly 


THE    DESCENDANT  253 

around.     A  tea-table  stood  beside  him,  and  for  a  moment 
his  eyes  rested  upon    the   sugar-bowl   of  Crown  Derby. 
Then  with  a  deliberate  gesture  he  lifted  it  and  hurled  it  at 
the  opposite  wall.     It  fell  with  a  crash. 
"  Damn  everybody  !"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  V 

MICHAEL  sat  in  his  cell.  A  single  ray  of  white  light  en 
tering  from  above  fell  across  his  bowed  head,  across  the 
table  upon  which  his  arm  rested,  across  the  cold  and  un- 
carpeted  floor.  Upon  the  table  before  him  lay  a  pile  of  un 
answered  letters,  and  at  one  corner  a  confused  heap  of  tele 
grams  ;  but  he  was  thinking  neither  of  them  nor  of  their 
senders.  Even  when  the  words  caught  his  eye — "  Sympa 
thy.  Wire  if  I  can  be  of  the  slightest  use  " — they  seemed 
an  empty  form,  devoid  of  significance.  He  had  sorted  the 
letters  mechanically,  desiring  rather  to  occupy  his  hands 
than  his  mind.  He  was  vaguely  surprised  at  the  interest 
strangers  had  shown  in  the  trial  and  its  results.  He  was 
even  annoyed  by  the  tenor  of  a  host  of  anonymous  commu 
nications.  Those  abnormities  —  half  women,  half  fools — 
that  had  plied  him,  as  they  plied  the  wife-murderer  next 
door,  with  condolence,  revolted  him.  He  knew  that  a  print 
of  himself  in  the  Sunday  World  had  sufficed  to  turn  some 
of  the  sentimentality  of  the  feminine  portion  of  mankind  in 
his  direction,  and  dully  he  resented  it.  Near  his  hand  lay 
a  perfumed  note  with  which  the  nameless  sympathizer  had 
sent  crimson  roses,  and  the  odor  of  the  flowers  caused  him 
a  sickening  sensation.  He  had  placed  them  as  near  the 
door  as  possible. 

Sensibly  the  strain  of  the  last  few  weeks  had  told  upon 
him.  His  face  had  grown  gray  and  bloodless,  the  haggard 
lines  accentuated  by  his  heavy  hair.  The  hand  resting,  re 
laxed  and  nerveless,  upon  the  table  had  lost  its  old  vigor 
ous  grasp.  With  his  impassioned  nature  retribution  had 
followed  swiftly  upon  crime. 

Suddenly  the  key  turned  in  the  lock.     He  started  with  a 


THE   DESCENDANT  255 

terror  that  was  childlike  in  its  instinctiveness.  As  a  man 
entered  he  stared  at  him  blankly,  seeing  that  it  was  his 
senior  counsel,  but  making  no  motion  of  recognition. 

The  man  came  forward  and  stopped.  He  coughed  dep- 
recatingly. 

"  Mr.  Akershem." 

Michael  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"  Mr.  Akershem  "—he  paused  to  rub  his  hands  with  affa 
ble  hesitancy— "  you  will  understand  that,  considering  the 
prejudices  your  previous  career  has  inspired  in  the  mind  of 
the  public,  the  verdict  was  not — er— not  unexpected.  The 
fact  that  it  was  lighter  than  was  generally  looked  for  (he 
had  assumed  the  tone  he  employed  to  the  jury)  is  due,  we 
believe—if  you  will  allow  us  to  say  so— to  our  personal  in 
terest  in  the  case  and  the  tireless  efforts  of  your  friends— 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Michael,  "but— 

"  As  you  know,  there  has  been  a  refusal  to  set  aside  the 
verdict." 

Michael  returned  his  gaze  with  blank  regard,  and,  as  the 
lawyer  paused,  stood  crumpling  the  telegrams  between  his 
fingers,  his  lips  twitching  slightly.  "Cowards,  they  are 
afraid  of  me  !"  he  muttered,  passionately. 

The  other  rubbed  his  hands  sympathetically. 

"  Ah  !  ahem  !"  he  began,  "  believe  me,  you  have  my  sym 
pathy — my  deepest  sympathy." 

"  Ten  years !"  said  Michael,  slowly,  and  he  paced  rest 
lessly  up  and  down  his  cell.  "  Ten  years  !"  he  repeated. 

The  lawyer  cast  a  glance  of  professional  compassion 
upon  him  and  departed.  At  the  door  he  stumbled  against 
John  Driscoll,  who  was  waiting  upon  the  outside. 

"  Your  zeal  is  commendable,  my  dear  sir,"  he  remarked, 
and  hurried  off. 

Driscoll  entered  the  cell,  and  stood  for  a  moment  with 
his  eyes  upon  Michael.  Then  he  came  forward,  resting 
one  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  Well,  old  man  ?"  he  said. 

Michael  looked  at  him  with  nervous  intensity.  "Ten 
years  !"  he  said,  in  a  half-whisper,  "Ten  years  !  Did  you 


256  THE    DESCENDANT 

hear  what  that  fool  said,  Driscoll  ?  Somehow  I  did  not  take 
it  in  before.  Ten  years !  Surely  there  is  some  mistake. 
Driscoll,  can't  you  inquire  if  there  is  not  a  mistake  ?" 

Something  stuck  in  Driscoll's  throat ;  he  shook  his  head 
without  replying. 

"  Why,  ten  years  is  a  lifetime  !"  continued  Michael,  breath 
lessly.  "  I  have  so  much  to  do,  so  much  to  fight  for.  Take 
ten  years  away,  and  there  will  be  nothing  left.  I  have  had 
only  ten  years.  It  was  ten  years  ago  that  I  came  to  New 
York  and  went  into  your  office  and  demanded  work.  Do 
you  remember  ?  I  was  a  boy  then.  I  knew  as  much  of 
life  as  a  baby.  Since  then  I  have  fought  hard.  I  have 
worked  like  a  slave,  and  for  what  ?  To  do  manual  labor  in 
Sing  Sing.  Good  God !  I  tell  you  it  can't  be  !  I  have 
my  life  to  live.  What  is  anything  compared  to  my  ambi 
tion  ?  I  tell  you—" 

"  Shem,  be  quiet,  for  God's  sake  !" 

A  shudder  ran  through  Driscoll's  frame.  Something  rose 
before  his  eyes  and  blinded  him.  He  threw  himself  into 
Alcershem's  chair,  resting  his  head  upon  the  table.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  could  have  cried  like  a  child. 

He  looked  at  Michael,  standing  tall  and  stalwart  before 
him;  he  saw  the  haggard  brow,  the  restless  limbs,  the 
whole  impassioned  frame.  Over  Driscoll  a  wave  of  bitter 
ness  swept,  and  at  that  moment,  had  it  been  in  his  power 
to  redeem  that  blasted  life,  he  could  have  struck  Akershem 
dead  at  his  feet.  The  energetic  brow,  the  flaming  eyes, 
the  whole  throbbing  vitality  of  the  man  !  Was  this  their 
end?  O  God,  the  pity  of  it!  In  a  flash  Michael's  life 
passed  before  him  as  vivid  as  the  writing  on  the  wall.  The 
good  which  weighed  in  the  balance  with  the  evil  of  his 
blood  had  been  found  wanting.  The  Nemesis  of  a  broken 
law  flamed,  a  fiery  revelation,  before  his  eyes.  He  saw 
Akershem,  fearless  and  elated,  bearing  ever  upon  him  the 
stamp  of  genius ;  saw  his  strong  hands  fighting  the  circum 
stances  which  hemmed  him  in,  and,  foiled,  still  fighting  in 
the  face  of  overwhelming  odds,  He  saw  Michael  as  he 


THE   DESCENDANT  257 

had  first  appeared  to  him,  awing  him — cynic  as  he  was — 
by  that  vital  and  dominant  nature  ;  saw  him  standing  with 
upraised  haTid  against  an  opposing  world,  victorious  by  the 
unconquerable  force  of  his  blood,  a  force  which,  recoiling 
upon  his  single  head  at  last,  had  played  into  the  hands  of 
the  Philistines. 

He  saw  the  impress  that  one  man  had  stamped  upon  his 
surroundings.  He  saw  himself,  satiated  with  the  shams  of 
life,  cleaving  unto  the  one  nature  which  was  fearlessly  it 
self,  sincere  alike  in  good  and  evil.  The  ruined  waste  that, 
meteor-like,  he  had  wrought  in  the  lives  of  others  blackened 
the  sketch  of  his  thought ;  Rachel,  a  sacrifice  to  that  force 
which  draws  the  aberrant  body  to  its  allotted  orbit ;  Kyle, 
a  victim  to  the  velocity  of  the  body  in  its  recoil.  All  the 
terrible  penalties  that  man  pays  to  an  outraged  nature, 
these  confronted  him.  And  lifting  his  head  he  looked  at 
Michael  Akershem,  and  his  heart  bled  with  the  pity  of  it. 

"  Driscoll,"  said  Michael,  suddenly. 

Driscoll  smiled  sadly.     "  Well  ?"  he  asked. 

"  You— you  have  stood  by  me  like  a  brick."  It  was  the 
first  sign  of  gratitude  Michael  had  shown,  and  it  pained 
Driscoll. 

"  Don't,  Shem,"  he  pleaded.  Then,  with  an  awkward 
struggle  for  words,  he  went  on  :  "  You  know  that  I  would 
have  given  my  life  to  spare  you.  Not  that  it  is  worth 
much,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  rubbing  his  ankle ;  "  pain  is 
its  essential  principle  just  now.  But  for  rheumatism  I'd 
hardly  know  I  was  alive." 

Michael  stopped  before  him.  "  You  go  to  Florida  ?"  he 
inquired,  with  but  little  show  of  interest. 

"If  this  confounded  thing  doesn't  go  to  my  heart  in 
stead,"  responded  Driscoll.  Then  his  tone  changed.  "  But 
I  haven't  given  up  yet,  Shem,"  he  added ;  "but  for  the  fact 
that  several  honest  men  had  gotten  in  the  wrong  place  I'd 
have  settled  it.  As  it  is,  not  many  weeks  shall  pass  by  that 
the  Governor  doesn't  hear  from  me.  He  will  yield  at  last 
from  sheer  exasperation." 


258  THE    DESCENDANT 

Akershem  shook  his  head  impatiently  and  continued  his 
walk.  Then  he  spoke  with  an  outburst  of  his  old  bitter 
ness.  Unconsciously  his  adjustment  to  conventions  had 
failed ;  he  stood  once  more  at  odds  with  the  world.  "  I  am 
fortunate  to  have  one  friend,"  he  said. 

Catching  a  subtle  inflection,  Driscoll  turned  quickly. 
"You  have  many,"  he  answered  ;  and,  "  Is  there  any  one  in 
particular  whom  you  wish  to  see  ?" 

No  answer. 

"  Shem,  don't  let  a  woman  come  between  us  now." 

Akershem  smiled.     "  Nor  any  man,"  he  added. 

"  Perhaps —  Driscoll  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  moment ; 
then  he  began  again  :  "  Have  you  thought  of  Miss  Gavin  ?" 

Michael  laughed  mirthlessly  ;  the  bitterness  of  his  speech 
stung  sharply.  "  Only  that  she  should  congratulate  her 
self,"  he  returned.  "  Her  selection  of  the  proper  moment 
resembles  intuition." 

"You  are  wrong,  man, "said  Driscoll,  gently;  "but — but 
do  you  wish  to  see  her  ?" 

A  flush  rose  to  Michael's  face.  With  the  old  passion 
for  sympathy  was  revivified  the  old  passion  for  Rachel.  It 
flickered  for  an  instant  and  went  out. 

"  Could  I  ?"  he  asked. 

Driscoll  rose  and  limped  stiffly  over  to  him.  "  Shem  " — 
he  laid  one  hand  upon  his  arm — "  all  the  women  in  America 
could  not  make  me  hard  on  you,  but"  —  he  caught  his 
breath — "but  is  it  for  love  of  her?  Think  what  it  would 
mean  to  her.  Do  you  desire  her  because  you  love  her  or 
because  she  loves  you?"  He  waited  patiently,  but  Aker 
shem  did  not  answer. 

And  the  next  morning  as  Rachel  worked  in  her  studio 
the  door  opened  and  Driscoll  entered.  She  started  slight 
ly,  looking  up  from  the  colors  she  was  mixing.  Since  he 
had  last  seen  her  a  change  had  passed  over  her — something 
indefinable,  blotting  out  all  vivid  tints  of  her  youth.  She 
was  thinner,  and  beneath  her  eyes  the  purple  shadows  had 
deepened ;  even  her  lips  had  lost  their  scarlet  ripeness. 


THE    DESCENDANT  259 

Sitting  there  with  a  patience  which  ill  became  her,  toiling 
mechanically  for  the  food  which  she  desired  not,  she  ap 
pealed  to  him  as  she  had  not  done  in  all  her  past  radiance. 

He  lifted  a  paper  from  the  table,  examining  it  idly.  It 
was  a  colored  print  of  Paris  fashions,  a  chromo-like  array 
of  slim-waisted,  large-hipped  women  promenading  upon  air. 
He  stared  at  it  wonderingly.  "  What  abomination  is  this?" 
he  inquired. 

Taking  it  from  him,  she  placed  it  on  the  table  before  her, 
a  smile  breaking  the  firm  lines  of  her  lips. 

"  I  shall  become  quite  an  authority  upon  fashions,"  she 
said,  lightly.  "  Having  nothing  better  to  do,  I  have  taken 
to  copying  designs." 

He  looked  at  her  in  dismay.  "  And  you  do  this  ?"  he 
asked. 

At  his  horror-struck  tones  she  laughed  a  little,  and  then 
went  on  with  her  work,  her  head  sinking  lower  over  the 
table.  "  One  must  live,  you  know,"  she  answered. 

"  Where  is  your  painting  ?" 

"  Behind  you  are  the  remains,"  she  replied,  with  a  pitiful 
attempt  at  her  old  animation.  "  Somehow  it  isn't  bread  and 
meat."  Then  she  added  :  "  I  work  upon  it  at  odd  times. 
Some  day  I  shall  get  back  my  old  power." 

With  the  words  a  sudden  flush  overspread  her  face,  and 
he  saw  that  the  lingering  embers  of  a  great  ambition  were 
still  warm. 

He  pointed  to  the  fashion-sheet  in  disgust.  "And  who 
pays  you  for  that  filth  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Madame  Estelle." 

"The  modiste?" 

She  nodded. 

"  But  you  loathe  it  ?"  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  smiled  ;  "  far  from  it.  Indeed,  I  am  growing 
rather  fond  of  it;  it  is  so  expressionless.  I  always  loved 
colors,  and  here  there  are  colors  and  nothing  else.  My 
painting  sickens  me  ;  it  is  all  emotion." 

He  glanced  at  the  veiled  "  Magdalen  "  and  sighed.    Then 


260  THE    DESCENDANT 

he  walked  to  the  fireplace  and  stood  looking  into  the  empty 
grate.  He  remembered  that  she  disliked  steam-heat,  and 
the  thought  of  her  poverty  smote  him.  That  she  was  mak 
ing  a  struggle  to  retain  these,  her  old  rooms,  to  which  she 
had  returned,  he  knew  at  a  glance.  One  cannot  let  one's 
hand  lie  idle  for  a  couple  of  years  without  paying  the  price. 

"You  see,  I  am  a  cabbage,"  continued  Rachel,  with  a 
humorous  smile.  "All  my  animal  vitality  has  become  ex 
hausted,  and  I  shall  stagnate  for  the  balance  of  my  life. 
When  one  only  eats  and  sleeps  and  breathes  and  loses 
one's  combativeness  one  becomes  a  plant,  and  when  one 
grows  to  enjoy  it  one  becomes  a  cabbage.  I  used  to  hate 
cabbages,"  she  added,  slowly. 

"  Rachel !"  She  looked  up  and  smiled  upon  him — her 
old  bewildering  smile.  "  Is  there  not  some  one  down  South 
to  look  after  you  ?" 

An  expression  of  pain  crossed  her  face ;  she  shook  her 
head.  "  Down  there  they  are  all  dead,"  she  answered. 
And  added,  quietly,  "  And  here  I  am  dead." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  back  of  her  chair.  "  I — I  am 
a  poor  party  to  mother  anybody,"  he  said,  "  but  I  can't 
leave  you  like  this." 

She  smiled  again.  "It  is  the  only  kindness  you  can  do 
me,"  she  answered. 

"  But  you  are  so  lonely." 

Her  lip  trembled  for  an  instant  and  was  firm.  "  You 
can  hardly  have  come  to  tell  me  that,"  she  responded. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  no.  I  came  to  tell  you  that— that  he 
had  rather  not  see  you." 

For  a  moment  her  busy  hands  lay  still.  She  looked  up 
at  him  with  dazed  eyes  that  caused  him  to  put  out  his  hand 
in  pained  protest.  Then  she  took  up  her  knife  again. 

"He  had  rather  not?"  she  repeated,  mechanically,  and 
went  on  with  her  work. 

He  stood  over  her  an  instant,  and  then  held  out  his 
hand.  "  Good-bye  !"  he  said. 

ghe  took  it  idly.     "Good-bye,"  she  echoed, 


THE   DESCENDANT  261 

He  went  to  the  door,  looked  back  at  her,  moved  a  step 
forward,  looked  back  again,  and  passed  out.  But  as  he 
descended  the  stairs  he  heard  his  name  called  and  lingered. 
She  stood  upon  the  landing  looking  after  him,  her  hands 
outstretched.  He  went  up  to  her,  clasping  them  in  his 
own. 

"  Little  soldier,"  he  said,  "  the  fight  is  not  over." 

Like  a  flame  her  old  iridescence  enveloped  her.  She 
grew  vivid. 

"  You  must  not  go  until — until  " — her  hands  closed  more 
firmly  over  his — "  until  I  have  thanked  you  for  your  good 
ness." 

Misunderstanding  her,  he  winced. 

"  Akershem  is  my  friend,"  he  replied.  "  I  should  have 
been  a  cad  not  to  stand  by  him." 

A  hot  flush  rose  to  her  brow;  the  tears  shone  in  her 
eyes,  making  them  luminous. 

"  I — I  did  not  mean  that,"  she  faltered.  "  I  should  not 
presume  to  thank  you  for  your  faithfulness  to  your — your 
friends."  And  she  left  him. 

When  the  door  had  closed  upon  her  he  turned  slowly 
and  descended  the  stairs,  passing  from  Rachel  and  from 
Rachel's  life. 


CHAPTER  VI 

INTO  the  Academy  a  flood  of  sunshine  drifted,  illumining 
the  canvases  upon  the  wall  with  a  golden  shimmer  dazzling 
to  the  eye  of  the  beholder.  It  was  opening  day,  and  a  sup 
pressed  excitement  weighted  the  atmosphere,  emanating 
probably  from  the  natural  possessors  of  the  illumined  can 
vases.  Here  and  there  the  spring  bonnets  of  the  ladies 
showed  amidst  the  sombre-toned  gathering  like  early  blos 
soms  cleaving  brown  soil,  while  the  light-hued  gowns  be 
longing  to  the  wearers  of  the  bonnets  lent  variegated  dashes 
of  color  to  the  nondescript  assembly. 

In  the  corners  and  about  the  entrances  small  groups 
clustered,  talking  in  half- whispers,  their  voices  rising  in 
frequent  interjections. 

"Oh,  do  find  Clara's  picture!"  cried  a  girl  in  brown, 
breaking  suddenly  away  from  her  companions.  ';  Some 
body  please  tell  me  the  name  of  it.  She  said  it  was  splen 
didly  hung."  No  attention  being  paid  to  her,  she  went 
rapidly  on :  "  Do  you  know  Geoff  Lorrilard  sold  his  *  An 
tigone'  for  nine  hundred?  He  painted  it  from  the  same 
model  that  I  am  using  for  *  Cleopatra.'  Oh,  there  is  a 
beauty  of  Bruce  Crane's  !  Look  at  it !  The  exhibition  is 
finer  this  year  than  it  has  ever  been,  they  say.  Dupont 
says  American  art  is  looking  up,  and  Dupont  despises  all 
but  the  French,  you  know." 

"  I  hear  he  has  hung  a  picture  which  is  making  a  row," 
broke  in  a  young  man  with  a  note-book.  "The  painter  is 
unknown  ;  I  am  inclined  to  think  it  is  Dupont  himself.  It 
savors  of  the  French  School  decidedly." 

"  Dupont  could  not  do  anything  so  strong  as  that,"  re 
marked  another  of  the  group ;  "  it  is  a  new  hand.  That 


THE    DESCENDANT  263 

brush  has  never  dabbled  in  milk-and-water.  What !  you 
haven't  seen  it  ?"  And  they  passed  out. 

An  elderly  gentleman  with  a  very  young  lady  entered 
suddenly  and  paused  before  an  effect  in  blue. 

"  Hello  !"  exclaimed  the  gentleman.  "  here's  one  of  Nev- 
ins's."  And,  glancing  up,  he  caught  the  eye  of  that  artist 
through  a  gold-rimmed  eye-glass.  "  How  are  you,  Nevins  ?" 
he  inquired.  "  Still  producing  babies,,  I  see." 

Mr.  Nevins  sauntered  over  to  them.  "  Well,  yes,"  he 
admitted ;  "  but  you  will  notice  they  are  no  longer  at  the 
breast.  It  has  taken  me  ten  years  to  wean  them,  and  in 
ten  more  I  expect  to  have  them  adults." 

The  gentleman  laughed,  and  the  young  lady  colored  and 
looked  hastily  for  a  number  in  her  catalogue. 

"  I  should  think  that  a  grown-up,  clothed  and  in  his  right 
mind,  would  be  a  pleasant  novelty,"  commented  the  gen 
tleman.  "  I'm  not  a  baby-fancier  myself." 

Mr.  Nevins  spread  out  his  hands  deprecatingly  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Nor  I,"  he  protested.  "  I  never 
see  a  baby  off  canvas  without  wanting  to  smash  it.  It  is 
by  severe  self-restraint  that  I  keep  my  hands  off  my  mod 
els.  But  the  public  must  be  gratified,  you  know,  and  a 
good  half  the  public  are  mothers.  Babies  sell.  Nothing 
else  does.  I  have  tried  landscapes,  portraits,  figures,  nude 
and  draped,  and  I  return  to  the  inevitable  baby.  I  bring 
out  a  baby  as  regularly  as  the  Season  comes."  Then  he 
smiled  broadly.  "  John  Driscoll  used  to  call  me  the  All- 
Father,"  he  added. 

The  young  lady  looked  up  quickly.  "  Oh,  do  tell  me 
something  about  Mr.  Driscoll,"  she  said.  "We  used  to  be 
such  friends,  but  it  has  been  six — no,  eight — years — how 
time  does  fly ! — since  he  went  away." 

"Eight,"  said  Mr.  Nevins.  "It  was  shortly  after  that 
Akershem  affair,  but  he  has  been  back  several  times  since 
then.  He  has  been  working  to  get  Akershem  out ;  the  only 
job  he  has  ever  undertaken  in  which  I  could  not  wish  him 
success." 


264  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  sighed  the  young  lady,  and  was  silent. 
Then  she  held  out  her  hand  to  an  acquaintance.  "  Why, 
Mrs.  Van  Dam,"  she  said,  "this  is  a  pleasure!  We  may 
always  count  upon  Mrs.  Van  Dam  as  a  patron  of  true  art, 
mayn't  we,  Mr.  Nevins  ?" 

Mr.  Nevins  thought  that  upon  the  whole  we  might,  and 
a  pale  young  man  in  Mrs.  Van  Dam's  train  was  convinced 
of  it. 

Mrs.  Van  Dam  had  raised  her  veil,  and  was  levelling  her 
lorgnettes  at  the  canvases  within  her  line  of  vision. 

"I  am  with  my  daughter,"  she  explained.  "She  has 
lived  South  since  her  marriage,  you  know,  but  she  is  so 
fond  of  art.  Cornelia,  my  dear,  I  want  you  to  know — 
Why,  where  is  Cornelia  ?',  she  added.  Cornelia  not  being 
forthcoming,  she  went  placidly  on.  "You  must  come  into 
the  next  room,"  she  said,  "  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of 
that  large  painting,  '  Mary  of  Magdala.'  It  is  the  success 
of  the  Season.  Dupont  exhibits  it,  you  know,  and  he  is 
simply  wild  about  it.  So  is  Mr.  McDonough,  who  is  an 
enthusiast  over  American  art.  He  proposes  presenting  it 
to  the  Metropolitan,  I  hear." 

They  passed  into  the  next  room,  pausing  suddenly  be 
fore  a  canvas  which  hung  facing  them.  At  first  one  noticed 
a  deep-toned  richness  that  suggested  a  Leonardo,  and  then 
from  the  perspective  of  gray  and  green  loomed  the  Mag 
dalen.  There  was  a  boldness  in  the  drawing  which  might 
have  been  startling,  but  was  only  impressive.  In  the  whole 
strong -limbed  figure,  of  which  the  mud -stained  drapery 
seemed  to  accentuate  the  sensuous  curves,  a  living  woman 
moved  and  breathed.  In  the  mire  at  her  feet  lay  a  single 
rose.  Above  her  head  a  full  moon  was  rising,  casting  a 
pale -lemon  light  upon  her  garments,  falling  like  a  halo 
about  the  head  of  one  scapegoat  for  the  sins  of  men. 

"  The  painter  is  a  realist,"  muttered  the  pale  young  man. 
"  I  don't  like  realism." 

The  young  lady  rustled  her  catalogue.  "  How  beauti 
ful,"  she  murmured,  "  and  how  strange  !  Why,  those  eyes 


THE    DESCENDANT  265 

are  marvellous.  There  is  every  emotion  in  them  of  which 
the  human  heart  is  capable — every  emotion  except  remorse." 

Then  she  looked  for  the  name.  "  Merely  'Mary  of  Mag- 
dala,'  "  she  said.  "  But  who  is  the  artist  ?" 

"That  is  Dupont's  secret,"  said  some  one  from  behind. 
tl  He  is  pledged  to  silence,  he  says." 

"It  would  be  interesting,"  remarked  Mrs.  Van  Dam,  "to 
know  the  artist." 

"What!  you  haven't  heard?"  cried  a  new-comer,  with  an 
air  implying  the  immensity  of  his  own  information  upon  the 
subject.  "  It  is  an  open  secret.  Dupont  won't  tell,  but 
he'll  hint." 

The  young  lady  interrupted  him  eagerly.  "  Why,  who  is 
it?"  she  asked. 

"  Well,  there  can  be  no  harm  in  saying,  I  suppose,  that  it 
is  a  Miss  Gavin.  You  remember  she  did  some  fine  work 
years  ago,  but  she  got  under  a  cloud  and  was  lost  sight  of." 

"  Oh,"  sighed  the  young  lady,  "  how  brilliantly  she  has 
reappeared !" 

Mrs.  Van  Dam  put  up  her  lorgnettes  and  surveyed  her 
disapprovingly.  "  Do  you  think  so  ?"  she  said,  in  an  in 
tended  undertone.  "  For  my  part,  I  consider  that  it  is  add 
ing  impertinence  to  infamy." 

The  young  lady  colored  and  looked  down. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Van  Dam,"  reasoned  Mr.  Nevins,  with 
his  usual  disregard  of  danger,  "  remember  that  the  voice  of 
this  democratic  people  of  ours  is  the  voice  of  God.  When 
it  proclaims  'famous'  it  drowns  our  'infamous.' " 

The  descendant  of  the  Byrds  of  Westover  turned  her 
gaze  upon  him. 

"  One  may  expect  anything  of  democracies,"  she  said. 

With  a  deprecatory  shrug,  Mr.  Nevins  spread  out  his 
hands.  "But  the  Voice,"  he  insisted. 

"  I  agree  with  Mrs.  Van  Dam,"  declared  the  pale  young 
man.  "After  all,  the  potent  voice  is  the  voice  of  Society." 

Mr.  Nevins's  shrug  was  still  more  deprecatory.  "  What ! 
is  Society  curtailing  vice  ?"  he  asked. 


266  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  Why,  mamma  " — a  young  matron  with  the  face  of  an 
angel  slipped  her  arm  through  Mrs.  Van  Dam's — "Mr. 
Lorrilard  is  saying  that  the  '  Magdalen  '  is  Rachel  Gavin's. 
Can  it  be  ?  How  did  you  hear  that  Rachel  was  dead  ?" 

Mrs.  Van  Dam  stiffened.  "  From  the  best  authority," 
she  replied,  haughtily. 

"But  she  isn't.  It  was  all  a  mistake,  and  just  look  at 
her  work.  Why,  it  is  so  like  Rachel !  It  makes  one  think 
that  Christ  saw  holiness  when  our  blind  eyes  beheld  only 
crime." 

"  Why,  Cornelia !" 

"  From  the  mouths  of  babes,"  remarked  Mr.  Nevins,  in 
an  audible  aside. 

The  young  matron  turned  back  as  she  was  drawn  away. 
"It  is  as  beautiful  as  Rachel,"  she  said,  "and  as  brave." 

And  in  her  studio,  shut  in  by  four  walls  from  the  tumult 
of  the  outside  city,  sat  Rachel  herself.  She  had  grown  thin 
and  colorless.  It  was  as  if  the  brush  of  Nature  had  blotted 
out  her  bloom  with  a  single  stroke  as  she  blotted  out  the 
colors  upon  her  canvas.  The  air  of  close  rooms  and  the 
strain  of  overwork  had  destroyed  the  vividness  of  her 
youth.  She  was  Rachel  still — a  Rachel  that  awoke  at  odd 
moments  in  laugh  and  voice  that  chased  across  her  worn 
face  in  fleeting  gleams,  like  the  gleams  from  a  sun  that  has 
set. 

"  So  you  tell  me  that  I  must  go  to  Paris?"  she  said.  She 
was  speaking  to  Dupont  as  he  stood  beside  her,  having 
taken  the  brush  from  her  hand. 

"  Leave  this  dirty  work,"  he  answered.  "  Let  Madame 
Estelle  and  her  gowns  go  to  Hades." 

Rachel  laughed  a  little  bitterly.  "  This  dirty  work,"  she 
answered,  "  has  fed  me  when  I  was  hungry  and  clothed  me 
when  I  was  naked.  My  painting  has  not  done  that." 

"  It  is  your  fault,"  he  answered.  "  You  have  been  faith 
less.  I  tell  you  your  'Magdalen'  will  make  you — make 
you,  do  you  hear  ?" 


THE    DESCENDANT  267 

"  If  the  making  is  more  satisfactory  than  Providence's,  I 
shall  not  complain,"  she  answered,  with  a  touch  of  cynicism. 
Then  she  smiled  at  him,  the  smile  radiating  across  her 
sharpened  features.  "  Dear  master/1  she  said,  "  when  one 
has  earned  one's  bread  by  copying  dressmaker's  designs, 
with  a  little  wood-engraving  thrown  in,  one  feels  like  eating 
that  bread  and  digesting  it  without  any  special  saying  of 
grace." 

He  stamped  his  foot.  "  Only  a  fool  or  a  woman  would 
have  bartered  such  a  talent  for  a  mess  of  sour  pottage,"  he 
answered. 

She  flushed,  and  then,  rising,  faced  him.  "  I  am  no  longer 
young,"  she  said.  "  I  am  very  tired.  Art  either  maddens 
or  wearies  me.  When  it  maddens  me  I  do  great  things — 
a  '  Magdalen ' ;  when  it  wearies  me  I  do  dirty  work.  If 
I  might  only  go  on  copying  designs."  Then  her  tone 
changed.  "  I  will  do  all  you  wish,"  she  said. 

He  looked  into  her  white  and  wasted  face,  and  beneath 
his  gaze  a  slow  flush  rose,  tingeing  her  cheeks. 

"  I  have  won  you  back  to  art,"  he  said. 

An  infusion  of  vitality  seemed  to  surge  through  her  veins. 

"  I  will  do  you  honor,"  she  answered. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THROUGH  the  crowd  which  thronged  Broadway  at  six 
o'clock  a  man  passed.  Amidst  the  congregate  mass  of  mov 
ing  atoms  his  outline  was  all  but  imperceptible,  presenting 
to  an  observer  from  a  distant  height  as  indistinct  an  indi 
viduality  as  is  presented  to  us  by  the  individual  in  a  writh 
ing  army  of  ants.  He  was  an  entity,  but,  surrounded  by  a 
host  of  greater  and  lesser  entities,  the  fact  of  his  personal 
existence  was  not  conducive  to  philosophic  reflection  in 
another  than  himself. 

There  was  a  sharp  edge  to  the  air  as  biting  as  a  mid 
winter's  frost.  If  one  could  have  swept  aside  all  visual  im 
pediments  one  might  have  seen  an  April  sunset  dyeing  the 
broken  west,  a  track  left  by  the  sun  as  he  ploughed  his 
bloody  way  across  golden  furrows. 

Above  the  city  the  smoke  hovered  low  in  a  neutral-toned 
cloud,  obscuring  what  was  still  day  in  the  open  country. 

The  crowd  in  the  street  moved  rapidly,  dividing  in  two 
dark  lines  that  passed  in  opposite  directions.  As  the  man 
walked  he  pushed  aside  with  a  feverish  impatience  those 
that  came  within  his  reach,  moving  as  if  indifferent  to  the 
human  stream  around  him.  He  stooped  slightly,  as  one 
who  is  old  or  in  pain  or  both,  sometimes  staggering  from 
loss  of  breath  consequent  upon  his  haste. 

He  was  of  medium  height,  with  a  frame  that  might  once 
have  seemed  of  iron,  the  skeleton  of  which  still  resisted  the 
disease  that  was  wasting  the  flesh  away.  His  features  were 
rendered  larger  than  their  wont  by  the  hollows  of  cheek 
and  brow,  and  the  skin  drawn  loosely  over  them  was  dry 
and  colorless — the  burned-out  fuel  of  a  hectic  fire.  Upon 
his  temples  the  heavy  hair  was  matted  and  dashed  with 


THE   DESCENDANT  269 

gray,  and  the  hand  that  he  raised  impatiently  to  brush  aside 
an  imaginary  lock  trembled  like  the  hand  of  one  palsied. 
It  was  as  if  a  gigantic  statue,  formed  for  power  and  for  en 
durance,  were  making  a  struggle  against  some  insidious 
enemy  feeding  upon  flesh  and  blood.  Reaching  the  corner, 
the  man  paused  for  a  moment,  strangling  back  a  fit  of 
coughing  which  broke  control  at  last.  For  the  first  time  he 
looked  up  and  glanced  about  him.  It  was  the  corner  of 
Fourteenth  Street,  and  across  the  way  the  words  "The 
Iconoclast "  stared  him  in  the  eyes.  He  remembered  that 
he  had  stood  at  this  same  corner  eighteen  years  ago,  and 
had  read  that  sign  idly  and  with  ignorance  of  the  part  it 
would  play  in  the  fulfilling  of  his  life.  It  was  new  then, 
and  shiny ;  now  it  showed  battered  and  weather-beaten. 
It  had  breasted  the  years  as  he  had  breasted  them.  Be 
hind  him  was  the  warehouse  upon  which  he  had  seen  the 
notice  of  "  Men  Wanted."  He  remembered  its  oblong 
shape,  the  size  of  the  letters,  and  the  effect  of  the  white 
tracing  upon  the  blackboard,  and  instinctively  he  felt  in  his 
pocket  for  the  phial  of  laudanum.  Could  that  really  have 
been  eighteen  years  ago  ?  Why,  it  seemed  only  yesterday. 
He  glanced  up  at  the  office  window  of  The  Iconoclast  s  city 
ecjitor — DriscolFs  window  it  had  been  then,  and  he  almost 
expected  to  find  those  shrewd  eyes  looking  at  him  from  be 
hind  closed  blinds.  The  thought  made  him  nervous,  and 
he  moved  a  few  feet  away. 

For  the  last  week,  since  the  hospital  doctor  had  signed 
a  certificate  that  secured  him  his  freedom  and  he  had  left 
the  prison  behind  him,  he  had  been  consumed  with  the 
dread  of  encountering  old  associations.  Driscoll  was 
South,  he  supposed,  and  he  was  glad  of  it.  Before  facing 
Driscoll  again  he  must  face  the  world  and  become  rein 
stated  in  his  old  Championship  of  liberty.  Through  his 
wasted  limbs  his  unwasted  energy  vibrated.  He  was  not 
beaten  yet. 

A  policeman  touched  his  arm  and  motioned  him  not  to 
obstruct  the  crossing.  The  policeman  looked  at  him  as  he 


270  THE    DESCENDANT 

would  have  looked  at  any  respectable  but  obtruding  citizen, 
but  Michael  resented  the  look,  and,  with  a  defiant  retort, 
moved  onward.  He  hated  those  pugilistic  protectors  of 
the  peace. 

For  days  he  had  roamed  the  streets  as  feverishly  as  he 
had  done  in  his  youth,  drawn  as  by  some  impelling  force 
to  his  old  surroundings,  and  yet  dreading  the  sight  of  a 
familiar  face,  shrinking  from  the  casual  glance  of  the  passer 
by.  Before  he  returned  to  do  battle  with  the  world  he 
must  rally  his  broken  forces,  must  clothe  this  protruding 
skeleton  with  flesh.  Freedom  and  good  food  would  manage 
it,  but  he  must  give  them  time.  He  remembered  the  stains 
upon  his  handkerchief  yesterday.  Pshaw!  was  he  the 
man  to  die  from  the  loss  of  a  drop  of  blood  ?  There  was 
vitality  in  him  yet. 

At  Eighteenth  Street  he  turned  as  from  habit,  and  paused 
as  he  found  himself  facing  the  Templeton.  From  the  first 
floor  to  the  eighth  lights  shone  in  the  windows,  in  the  very 
rooms  that  he  had  once  occupied.  The  sight  startled  him. 
It  was  with  a  certain  wonderment  that  he  found  the  world 
unaltered.  He  had  been  in  hell  for  eight  years  and  more, 
and  not  one  laugh  the  less  was  heard  upon  the  streets,  not 
one  smile  the  less  crossed  the  faces  in  the  crowd,  not  one 
shadow  the  more  fell  over  his  familiar  haunts.  It  was  as 
it  had  been,  and  as  it  would  be  though  he  perished.  How 
fleeting  is  the  effect  that  one  man  produces  upon  his  time ! 
An  idol  is  exalted  in  the  market-place  ;  it  falls,  and  upon  its 
crumbling  ruins  another  is  raised  towards  heaven.  For 
men  there  are  many  divinities,  and  for  a  fallen  idol  there  is 
the  mire. 

Upon  the  sidewalk  he  loitered,  glancing  into  the  cheer 
ful  interiors.  Vaguely  he  wondered  if  these  people  knew 
that  he  —  Michael  Akershem  —  stood  without.  In  one,  a 
room  suffused  with  lamplight,  a  mother  sat  singing  to  the 
young  child  upon  her  breast.  The  placidity  of  her  ex 
pression  annoyed  him.  He  knew  that  though  poverty  and 
misery  stalked  in  the  night  at  her  door  she  would  not 


THE   DESCENDANT  271 

awaken  the  sleeping  child  or  cease  her  soothing  lullaby. 
In  another  a  woman  sat  alone.  She  was  lithe  and  young, 
and  something  in  the  curve  of  her  shapely  head  brought 
Rachel  to  his  mind.  In  such  warm  and  soft  firelight  had 
Rachel  waited  for  him  in  the  old  days  when  he  was  worth 
waiting  for.  Now  Rachel  had  gone  back  to  her  art  and 
was  doing  great  things  —  things  such  as  she  had  always 
meant  to  do.  One  evening  in  the  elevated  road  he  had 
heard  two  artists  speaking  of  her  and  her  future.  In  his 
embittered  mind  the  praise  had  inspired  an  aggrieved  jeal 
ousy.  She,  whom  he  had  loved  to  his  own  undoing,  was 
gathering  her  meed  of  fame,  for  the  crumbs  of  which  he 
was  famishing. 

The  shapely  woman  in  the  firelit  room  warmed  him  with 
memory  of  the  time  when  a  woman  had  thought  the  world 
well  lost  for  the  sake  of  him.  Whatever  came  to  her  here 
after,  once  every  vibration  of  her  heart-strings  had  been 
his — his,  a  homeless  vagrant,  with  his  bones  crumbling  to 
dust. 

An  acute  pain  in  his  chest  caused  him  to  start  suddenly. 
He  remembered  such  a  pain  in  that  illness  two  years  ago, 
when  his  breath  had  been  like  the  agony  of  travail.  Then, 
in  the  madness  of  delirium,  he  had  called  upon  Rachel,  and 
called  in  vain'.  Well,  that  was  over  and  done  with. 

He  turned  away  from  the  ruddy  interiors  and  stood  upon 
the  corner,  watching  the  straggling  stream  "of  passers-by — 
a.  laborer  with  a  tin  pail  jingling  noisily  from  his  hand,  a 
woman  with  crimson  roses  upon  her  breast  and  crimson 
marks  upon  her  cheeks,  another  woman,  a  man,  a  child,  a 
man  again,  a  newsboy,  a  policeman.  And  then  a  woman  in 
a  fur  coat  passed  him,  turned  suddenly,  hesitated,  and  came 
back.  Beneath  the  small  hat  her  eyes  looked  out  inquir 
ingly  ;  under  her  arm  she  carried  a  long  roll. 

With  a  tremor  he  recognized  her  and  drew  away.  In 
the  haggard  face  he  turned  from  her  only  a  woman's  eyes 
could  have  seen  Michael  Akershem.  He  cowered  into  the 
shadow,  but  she  came  on. 


272  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  Michael !" 

Her  voice  thrilled  him,  and  he  put  out  his  hand,  warding 
her  off. 

"Michael!" 

She  had  reached  him,  her  light  touch  was  almost  upon 
his  arm. 

"  I  am  not  Michael,"  he  answered,  hoarsely. 

But  as  he  lifted  his  head  the  electric  light  fell  full  upon 
him,  and  they  stood  in  silence  regarding  each  other.  In 
that  silence  each  looked  across  the  years,  and  saw  the  past 
and  the  future  drawing  as  to  a  point — and  that  point  was 
the  present. 

She  saw  pain  and  misery  and  wasted  strength  ;  she  saw 
a  dread  of  her  and  yet  a  need  of  her,  a  desire  for  solitude, 
like  the  desire  of  an  animal  that  seeks  the  covert,  and  yet 
the  longing  for  a  ministering  touch ;  she  saw  the  hand  of 
Death  looming  above  his  face,  and  the  sight  made  her  bold, 
as  would  not  the  hand  of  Life. 

He  saw  a  woman  from  whom  youth  but  not  usefulness 
had  fallen  ;  he  saw  shoulders  that  had  borne  strong  burdens 
and  might  bear  stronger;  he  saw  eyes  that  had  looked 
upon  life  and  found  it  futile,  but  that  burned  with  his 
image  as  fervently  as  they  had  burned  in  the  heat  of  the 
passionate  past,  and  looking  into  them  he  saw  constancy 
made  manifest ;  he  saw  the  love  that  after  years  of  wrong 
and  wandering  may  lead  us  home  at  last. 

"  Michael,  I  am  so  glad  !"  Her  hand  was  upon  his  arm, 
her  gaze  upon  his  face. 

"  Let  me  go  !"  he  answered.     "  Oh,  Rachel !  Rachel !" 

Again  he  strove  to  strangle  that  grating  cough,  but  it 
broke  loose. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  for  he  would  have  passed  on.  "  You 
have  come  to  me  to  be  nursed  and  made  quite  strong 
again  !"  She  tried  to  speak  lightly,  but  her  voice  faltered. 
"  Oh,  my  beloved,  is  it  not  so  ?"  she  asked. 

He  spoke  hoarsely ;  his  arm  trembled  from  the  weight  of 
her  detaining  hand, 


THE    DESCENDANT  273 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  answered,  but  he  no  longer  withstood 
her;  "it  is  only  a  cold — it  is  chronic." 

"  I  will  cure  it,"  she  said.  A  leaping  of  his  pulses  that 
was  not  the  leaping  of  fear  stimulated  him.  At  that  mo 
ment  the  memory  of  the  time  when  Rachel  had  craved  his 
love  and  it  had  failed  her  was  blotted  out.  He  remembered 
only  the  exuberant  passion  of  his  youth. 

"  Do  you  care,  Rachel  ?     I  am  not  worth  it." 

Still  clinging  to  him,  she  led  him  on,  talking  in  those 
light  tones  which  came  at  will,  drawing  him  from  himself 
and  to  her. 

They  entered  the  Templeton,  and,  because  he  shrank 
from  the  elevator,  mounted  the  stairs.  Her  voice  was  clear 
and  strong,  the  result  of  a  nervous  tension,  warning  her 
that  to  pause  would  be  to  break  down,  to  discharge  her 
swollen  heart. 

"  I  have  been  to  the  bakers,"  she  said,  as  lightly  as  if 
they  had  parted  the  day  before — "  to  the  baker's  to  buy  a 
loaf  of  bread.  I  have  supper  in  my  studio  now.  I  am 
tired  of  restaurants  and  French  cooking.  So,  like  Old 
Mother  Hubbard,  I  have  my  little  cupboard,  to  which  I  re 
sort,  and  I  have  also,  not  a  dog,  but  a  cat — a  nice  gray  cat." 

His  labored  breathing  caused  her  to  pause  for  a  moment, 
stooping  to  fasten  the  lace  of  her  boot.  It  took  some  little 
time,  and  then  she  resumed  her  slow  ascent,  slipping  her 
hand  through  his  arm. 

"  I  have  supper  all  by  myself,"  she  continued,  "  and  you 
shall  share  it — you  and  the  cat.  I  have  become  quite  a 
good  cook,  as  you  shall  see.  My  oysters  are  the  pride  of 
my  life.  I  haven't  any  one  to  appreciate  them  except,  now 
and  then,  Dupont,  because,  you  see,  there  isn't  a  soul  here 
now  that  I  care  about.  The  little  mother  with  the  twins 
moved  out  West,  and  Madame  Laroque — didn't  I  tell  you  ? 
— Madame's  husband  died  and  left  her  property  in  France, 
and  his  brother  came  over  to  see  her  about  it.  But  Ma 
dame  declared  that  she  could  not  survive  the  sight  of  a 
Frenchman,  so  she  locked  herself  in  her  room,  Oh,  it  was 


274  THE    DESCENDANT 

so  funny!  There  was  the  brother -in -law  besieging  and 
Madame  relentless.  It  went  on  for  a  couple  of  weeks, 
when,  finally,  Madame  came  down,  and  one  day  he  met  her 
upon  the  street,  and  in  a  week  they  were  married  and  sailed 
to  France."  She  paused,  and  the  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

They  had  reached  her  landing,  and  with  an  energetic 
movement  she  threw  open  the  door  of  her  studio. 

"  Here  we  are,"  she  said,  "  and  the  tea  is  brewing,  and  the 
fire  burning,  and  the  cat  waiting."  She  drew  an  arm-chair 
to  the  hearth-rug,  laid  his  hat  and  coat  aside,  and  piled  a 
heap  of  downy  cushions  at  his  head.  Then  she  took  off 
her  wrap  and  set  about  preparing  her  supper,  talking  as  she 
might  have  talked  ten  years  ago.  It  was  all  so  natural,  so 
much  as  it  used  to  be — the  room,  the  firelight,  the  shaded 
lamp,  the  casts,  the  hangings,  the  canvases — that  the  years 
seemed  but  shapeless  spectres  and  his  agony  a  dream  un 
fulfilled. 

He  lay  back  among  the  cushions  and  looked  at  her,  his 
brilliant  eyes  flaming  from  between  the  twitching  lids  like 
a  slow  fire  consuming  his  shrunken  features. 

Over  Rachel  herself  a  radiance  that  was  more  than  the 
radiance  of  the  dancing  firelight  had  fallen.  Excitement 
crimsoned  her  cheeks,  irradiating  across  brow  and  lips.  In 
her  eyes  the  lustre  of  her  youth  shone  with  its  old  splen 
dors.  All  the  vivid  and  evanescent  charm  that  had  once 
been  hers  returned  for  one  fleeting  moment  to  envelop  her. 
He  looked  at  her  wonderingly. 

"  Why,  Rachel,"  he  said,  and  his  tone  was  querulous, 
"you  have  not  changed  !" 

She  smiled  upon  him.  "  No,"  she  answered,  simply,  "  I 
have  not  changed." 

She  brought  the  little  table  and  placed  it  before  him, 
watching  him  with  anxious  eyes  as  he  ate  his  oysters,  and 
pretending  to  eat,  herself. 

The  cat  left  the  hearth-rug  and  leaped  upon  his  knee, 
and  he  stroked  it  with  a  pitiable  pleasure  in  the  instinctive 
confidence  animals  had  always  felt  in  him.  Broken  and 


THE   DESCENDANT  275 

ill  as  he  was,  the  little  things  which  he  had  disregarded  in 
his  strength  appealed  to  him  in  his  weakness.  Crushed  by 
the  great  things  of  life,  he  saw  that  the  little  things  were  good. 

Rachel  watched  him  with  enraptured  eyes.  That  buoy 
ant  interest  in  the  minutiae  of  life  which  had  once  irritated, 
now  soothed  him.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  cared  for,  to  have 
some  one  care  whether  one  ate  or  went  hungry,  whether  one 
coughed  or  was  silent.  He  accepted  her  services  apatheti 
cally,  feeling  not  gratitude  but  contentment. 

When  he  had  finished  she  pushed  the  table  aside,  placed 
the  dishes  upon  a  tray  in  the  hall,  and,  drawing  a  stool  to 
his  feet,  sat  beside  him,  resting  her  cheek  upon  his  dry  and 
fevered  hand. 

He  spoke  pettishly.  "  I  am  a  wreck,"  he  said — "  a  broken 
wreck.  Look  at  that  wrist ;  the  muscle  is  almost  through 
the  flesh."  And  he  added :  "  I  am  a  cur  that  the  stones 
of  mankind  have  beaten  to  death.  Yes,  I  am  beaten." 

Rachel  looked  up  at  him.  "You  are  and  have  always 
been  my  hero,"  she  answered.  "  From  the  night  in  that 
little  French  restaurant  when  I  looked  up  and  found  your 
eyes  upon  me  I  have  had  no  hero  but  you." 

"  A  poor  hero,"  he  said,  faintly,  choking  back  the  cough 
in  his  throat. 

He  lay  still  for  a  while,  so  still  that  she  fancied  him  ex 
hausted  and  asleep.  With  a  passionate  tenderness  she  al 
lowed  her  eyes  to  rest  upon  him,  upon  the  drawn  face  and 
the  whole  ruined  length  of  him.  And  then — 

"  He  is  mine,"  she  thought,  exultingly — "  mine  for  all 
time !" 

The  broken  and  wasted  remains  of  a  great  vitality,  the 
decay  of  a  towering  ambition,  querulous  complaints  in  place 
of  an  impassioned  reserve,  death  in  place  of  life — these  were 
hers.  Hers  the  scattered  crumbs  from  the  bread  of  life, 
hers  the  stagnant  slime  left  of  an  all-powerful  passion. 

She  moved  gently,  loosening  her  hold  upon  his  hand, 
fearing  to  disturb  his  rest  by  an  emotion  which  defied  con 
trol.  He  stirred  and  turned  towards  her. 


276  THE    DESCENDANT 

"  Rachel,"  he  said,  "  don't  let  go  !" 

Leaning  above  him,  she  kissed  his  brow,  his  eyes,  his 
lips. 

"You  want  me  ?"  she  asked,  with  passionate  compassion. 

He  strove  to  raise  himself,  but  she  held  him  back. 

"  I  always  wanted  you,"  he  answered,  "  except  when  I 
was  sure  I  had  you."  And  he  added,  slowly  :  "  You  are  so 
steadfast." 

She  kissed  his  burning  hand.     It  was  her  reward. 

He  struggled  up,  a  light  flashing  in  his  eyes,  his  domi 
nant  nature,  undaunted  by  failure  and  death,  asserting  itself 
again. 

"Rachel,"  he  said,  breathlessly,  "would  you  fight  the 
world  for  me  ?" 

Her  eyes  caressed  him. 

"  I  would  fight  God  for  you  !"  she  answered. 

With  a  sudden  energy  he  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose 
to  his  feet.  As  he  did  so  a  cord  within  his  chest  seemed 
to  strain  and  snap  asunder,  loosening  the  foundations  of 
life.  He  put  up  his  hand  to  force  back  the  paroxysm  of 
coughing,  but  it  broke  forth  with  a  strangled  violence,  and 
with  it  a  thin  line  of  blood  rose  to  his  lips,  oozing  upon  the 
handkerchief  with  which  he  strove  to  stanch  it. 

He  fell  back  in  the  chair,  letting  the  scarlet  stream  pass 
between  his  lips,  and  putting  aside  the  arms  Rachel  had 
cast  about  him. 

Then  in  a  moment  it  was  over,  and  he  lay  looking  up  at 
her,  his  face  carved  in  the  marble  whiteness  of  pain,  his 
brilliant  eyes  unclouded.  There  was  a  harder  battle  to 
fight  before  the  end  would  find  him. 

In  his  face  the  old  fearless  spirit  which  could  be  quenched 
but  by  dust  shone  brightly. 

"Give  me  half  a  chance,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  be  even 
with  the  world  at  last !" 

But  upon  his  lips  was  set  the  blood-red  seal  of  fate. 

THE    END 


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